THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SELECTIONS 

FROM 

AMERICAN  AUTHORS 


PRINTED     IN     THE     ADVANCED 
STYLE  OF  PITMAN'S  SHORTHAND 


NE\V    YORK 

ISAAC    PITMAN    &   SONS,  THE   PHONOGRAPHIC  DRPOI 
2  \\  EST  45TH  STREET 

AND  AT  LONDON,  BATH  AND  MELBOURNE 


TORONTO,  CANADA 
The  Commercial  TeM-Book  Co. 

OR 
T'tt  C>M>,  Clark  Co..  Litinf  d 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  BUCCANEER'S  TREASURE  (Washington  Irving)  ? 

MY  EDITING  (Mark  Twain)       .         .     '    .         .  10 

A  VENERABLE  IMPOSTO-R  (Bret  Harte)         .         .  1H 
THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (Oliver 

Wendell  Holmes)        .....  23 

THE  WAY  TO  WEALTH  (Benjamin  Franklin)       .  28 

THE  TELL-TALE  HEART  (Edgar  Allan  Poe)          .  4: 

GREATNESS  IN  COMMON  LIFE  (W.  E,  Channing)  5' 

THE  STORY  OF  A  DRUM  (Bret  Harte)          .          .  64 

THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE  (Nathaniel  Hawthorne)  1'. 

A  MELTING  STORY  (Mark  Twain)  9*- 
THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (O.  W. 

Holmes')     ......  li 


Selections  from  American  Authors. 


THE  BUCCANEER'S  TREASURE. 

BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


1  '  \\rolfert  Webber  had  carried  home  a  fresh  stock  of  stores 
..ad  notions  to  ruminate  upon.  These  accounts  of  pots  of 
money  and  Spanish  treasures,  buried  here  and  there  and 
(.-verywhere  about  the  rocks  and  bays  of  these  wild  shores, 
de  him  almost  dizzy.  The  doctor  had  often  heard  the 
rumours  of  treasure  being  buried  in  various  parts  of  the 
island,  and  had  long  been  anxious  to  get  in  the  traces  of  it. 
The  circumstances  unfolded  to  him  awakened  all  his 
cupidity  ;  he  had  not  a  doubt  of  money  being  buried 
somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  mysterious  crosses, 
and  offered  to  join  Wolfert  in  the  search. 

The  great  church  clock  struck  ten  as  Wolfert  and  the 
doctor  passed  by  the  churchyard,  and  the  watchmen 
bawled,  in  hoarse  voice,  a  long  and  doleful  "  All's  well  !  " 
A  deep  sleep  had  already  fallen  upon  this  primitive  little 


449529 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


burgh.  Nothing  disturbed  this  awful  silence,  excepting 
now  and  then  the  bark  of  some  profligate,  night-walking 
dog,  or  the  serenade  of  some  romantic  cat. 

They  found  the  old  fisherman  waiting  for  them,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  stern  of  his  skiff,  which  was  moored  just  in 
front  of  his  little  cabin.  A  pickaxe^and  spade  were  lying 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with  a  dark  lantern,  and  a  stone 
bottle  of  good  Dutch  courage,  in  which  honest  Sam,  no 
doubt,  put  even  more  faith  than  the  doctor  in^his  drugs.  ' 

Thus,  then,  did  these  three  worthies  embark  in  their 
cockleshell  of  a  skiff  upon  this  nocturnal  expedition.  The 
tide  was  rising  and  running  rapidly  up  the  Sound.  The 
current  bore  them  along  almost  without  the  aid  of  an  oar. 
They  now  landed,  and  lighting  the  lantern,  gathered  their 
various  implements  and  proceeded  slowly  through  the 
bushes.  Every  sound  startled  them,  even  that  of  their 
own  footsteps  among  the  dried  leaves  ;  and  the  hooting  of 


THE  BUCCANEER  S  TREASURE. 


/ 

w-  v» 
^  %>  * ,  • 

>     n^    > 


1      s~\       (      <S>    ^  /      '  I      >       / 

^     <o  V,    ^...o-'l  A, 


H    --V  -•     •  -  L 

^i    ^  ,  x-n 

- 


a  screech-owl  from  the  shattered  chimney  of  a  neighbouring 
ruin  made  their  blood  run  cold. 

The  lantern  was  now  held  by  Wolfert  Webber,  while  the 
doctor  produced  a  divining  rod.  It  was  a  forked  twig,  one 
end  of  which  was  grasped  firmly  hi  each  hand  ;  while  the 
centre  forming  the  stem,  pointed  perpendicularly  upwards. 
The  doctor  moved  this  wand  about,  within  a  certain  dis- 
tance of  the  earth,  from  place  to  place,  but  for  some  time 
without  any  effect :  while  Wolfert  kept  the  light  of  the 
lantern  turned  full  upon  it,  and  watched  it  with  the  most 
breathless  interest.  At  length  the  rod  began  slowly  to 
turn.  The  doctor  grasped  it  with  great  earnestness,  his 
hands  trembling  with  the  agitation  of  his  mind.  The 
wand  continued  to  turn  gradually,  until  at  length  the  stem 
had  reversed  its  position,  and  pointed  perpendicularly 
downward,  and  remained  pointing  to  one  spot  as  fixedly 
as  the  needle  to  the  pole. 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


'% 


•   "XI    ~  •>" 

.<f\  /  ,  3-v/- 


"  This  is  the  spot  !  "  said  the  doctor,  in  an  almost 
inaudible  tone. 

Wolfert's  heart  was  in  his  throat. 

"  Shall  I  dig  ?  "  said  the  negro,  grasping  the  spade. 

"  No  !  "  rephed  the  little  doctor  hastily.  He  now  ordered 
his  companions  to  keep  close  by  him,  and  to  maintain  the 
most  inflexible  silence  ;  that  certain  precautions  must  be 
taken,  and  ceremonies  used,  to  prevent  the  evil  spirits, 
which  kept  about  buried  treasure,  from  doing  them  any 
harm.  While  Wolfert  held  the  lantern,  the  doctor,  by  the 
aid  of  his  spectacles,  read  off  several  forms  of  conjuration 
in  Latin  and  German.  He  then  ordered  Sam  to  seize  the 
pickaxe  and  proceed  to  work.  The  close-bound  soil  gave 
obstinate  signs  of  not  having  been  disturbed  for  many  a 
year.  After  having  picked  his  way  through  the  surface, 
Sam  came  to  a  bed  of  sand  and  gravel,  which  he  threw 
briskly  to  right  and  left  with  the  spade. 


THE  BUCCANEER'S  TREASURE. 


The  negro  continued  his  labours  and  had  already  digged 
a  considerable  hole.  At  last  the  spade  of  the  old  fisher- 
man struck  upon  something  that  sounded  hollow ;  the  sound 
vibrated  to  Wolfert's  heart.  He  struck  his  spade  again — 

"  "Tis  a  chest,"  said  Sam. 

"  Full  of  gold,  I'll  warrant  it  !  "  cried  Wolfert,  clasping 
his  hands  with  rapture. 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  the  words,  when  a  sound  from 
above  caught  his  ear.  He  cast  up  his  eyes,  and  lo  !  by 
the  expiring  light  of  the  nre,  he  beheld,  just  over  the  disk 
of  the  rock,  what  appeared  to  be  the  grim  visage  of  the 
drowned  buccaneer,  grinning  hideously  down  upon  him. 

Wolfert  gave  a  loud  cry,  and  let  fall  the  lantern.  His 
panic  communicated  itself  to  his  companions.  The  negro 
leaped  out  of  the  hole  ;  the  doctor  dropped  his  book  and 
basket,  and  began  to  pray  in  German.  All  was  horror  and 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


"~b 


confusion.  The  fire  was  scattered  about,  the  lantern  ex- 
tinguished. In  their  hurry  they  ran  against  and  con- 
founded one  another.  The  doctor  ran  one  way,  the  negro 
another,  and  Wolfert  made  for  the  waterside.  As  he 
plunged,  struggling  onward  through  bush  and  brake,  he 
heard  the  tread  of  someone  in  pursuit.  He  scrambled 
frantically  forward.  The  footsteps  gained  upon  him.  He 
felt  himself  grasped  by  his  cloak,  when  suddenly  his 
pursuer  was  attacked  in  turn. 

One  of  the  combatants  was  disposed  of,  but  whether 
friend  or  foe,  Wolfert  could  not  tell,  or  whether  they  might 
or  not  both  be  foes.  He  heard  the  survivor  approach,  and 
his  terror  revived.  He  saw,  where  the  profile  of  the  rocks 
rose  against  the  horizon,  a  human  form  advancing.  He 
could  not  be  mistaken — it  must  be  the  buccaneer.  Whither 
should  he  fly  ? — a  precipice  was  on  one  side,  a  murderer  on 
the  other.  The  enemy  approached — he  was  close  at  hand. 
Wolfert  attempted  to  let  himself  down  the  face  of  the  cliff. 


THE  BUCCANEER'S  TREASURE. 


His  cloak  caught  in  a  thorn  that  grew  on  the  edge.  He  was 
jerked  from  off  his  feet,  and  held  dangling  in  the  air,  half 
choked  by  the  string  with  which  his  careful  wife  had 
fastened  the  garment  round  his  neck.  Wolfert  thought 
his  last  moment  was  arrived  ;  already  had  he  committed 
his  soul  to  St.  Nicholas,  when  the  string  broke,  and  he 
tumbled  down  the  bank,  bumping  from  rock  to  rock,  and 
bush  to  bush,  and  leaving  the  red  cloak  fluttering,  like  a 
bloody  banner  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Wolfert  came  to  himself. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes,  the  ruddy  streaks  of  morning 
were  already  shooting  up  the  sky.  He  found  himself  lying  in 
the  bottom  of  a  boat,  grievously  battered.  He  attempted 
to  sit  up,  but  he  was  too  sore  and  stiff  to  move.  A  voice 
requested  him,  in  friendly  accents,  to  lie  still.  He  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  speaker — it  was  Dirk  Waldron.  He 
had  dogged  the  party  at  the  earnest  request  of  Dame 
Webber  and  her  daughter,  who  with  the  laudable  curiosity 


10  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


V  -*  ..L..~.  .s 


MY  EDITING. 

BY  MARK  TWAIN. 


•J_a 


of  their  sex  had  pried  into  the  secret  consultations  of 
Wolfert  and  the  doctor.  Dirk  had  been  completely 
distanced  in  following  the  light  skiff  of  the  fisherman, 
and  had  just  come  in  time  to  rescue  the  poor  digger 
from  his  pursuer. 

Thus  ended  this  perilous  enterprise.  The  doctor  and 
black  Sam  severally  found  their  way  back,  each  having 
some  tale  of  peril  to  relate.  As  to  poor  Wolfert,  instead 
of  returning  in  triumph,  laden  with  bags  of  gold,  he  was 
borne  home  on  a  shutter,  followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of 
curious  urchins. 

The  sensation  of  being  at  work  once  again  was  luxurious, 
and  I  wrought  all  the  week  with  unflagging  pleasure.  We 
went  to  press,  and  I  waited  a  day  with  some  solicitude  to 
see  whether  my  effort  was  going  to  attract  any  notice.  As 
I  left  the  office,  toward  sundown,  a  group  of  men  and  boys 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  dispersed  with  one  impulse,  and 


MY     EDITING.  11 


'  v:^:./v'.:..^.v..'..-...S. 


gave  me  passage-way,  and  I  heard  one  or  two  of  them  say 
"  That's  hini  !  "  I  was  naturally  pleased  by  this  incident. 
The  next  morning  I  found  a  similar  group  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  scattered  couples  and  individuals  standing 
here  and  there  in  the  street,  and  over  the  way,  watching 
me  with  interest.  The  group  separated  and  fell  back  as  I 
approached,  and  I  heard  a  man  say,  "  Look  at  his  eye  !  " 
I  pretended  not  to  observe  the  notice  I  was  attracting,  but 
secretly  I  was  pleased  with  it,  and  was  purposing  to  write 
an  account  of  it  to  my  aunt.  I  went  up  the  short  flight 
of  stairs,  and  heard  cheery  voices  and  a  ringing  laugh  as  I 
drew  near  the  door,  which  I  opened,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  two  young,  rural-looking  men,  whose  faces  blanched  and 
lengthened  when  they  saw  me,  and  then  they  both  plunged 
through  the  window,  with  a  great  crash.  I  was  surprised. 
In  about  half-an-hour  an  old  gentleman,  with  a  flowing 
beard  and  a  fine  but  rather  austere  face,  entered,  and  sat 
down  at  my  invitation.  He  seemed  to  have  something  on 
his  mind.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  set  it  on  the  floor,  and 


12 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN7    AUTHORS. 


...^.S,  ..f.  f  i   *  ^ 

,  .:..n.t:  /i..^ 

xx^^7     '     •     —  \.    X    \ 

v      V       b    ^^        ' 

1     .  \  .  .    \\   ;  -  .  .  1 

i>i                x 

y     \ 

^  ,  ^    o  V,  6  ^ 

6     b  : 

'  r 

"X   „    .    _    i^?" 

t      ^x 

"^  ^  I    •    ^-    V 

vr 

^r 


got  out  of.it  a  red  silk  handkerchief  and  a  copy  of  our 
paper.     He  put  the  paper  on  his  lap,  and,  while  he  polished 
his  spectacles  with  his  handkerchief,  he  said  : 
"  Are  you  the  new  editor  ?  " 
I  said  I  was. 

"  Have  you  ever  edited  an  agricultural  paper  before  ?  " 
"  No,'    I  said  ;    "  this  is  my  first  attempt." 
Then  this  old  person  got  up  and  tore  his  paper  all  into 
small  shreds,  and  stamped  on  them,  and  broke  several 
things  with  his  cane,  and  said  I  did  not  know  as  much  as 
a  cow  ;    and  then  went  out,  and  banged  the  door  after 
him  ;   and,  in  short,  acted  in  such  a  way  that  I  fancied  he 
was  displeased  about  something.     But,  not  knowing  what 
the  trouble  was,  I  could  not  be  any  help  to  him. 

But.  these  thoughts  were  quickly  banished  when  the 
regular  editor  walked  in.      (T  though*  to  myself,  "  Now, 


MY    EDITING.  13 


.,:.  \^r.  J  * 
' 


:.  o^o  ^  .^,  .x..:...v,  ..'. 


if  you  had  gone  to  Egypt,  as  I  recommended  you  to,  I 
might  have  had  a  chance  to  get  my  hand  in  ;  but  you 
wouldn't  do  it,  and  here  you  are.  T  sort  of  expected  you.") 

The  editor  was  looking  sad,  and  perplexed,  and  dejected. 
He  surveyed  the  wreck  which  that  old  rioter  and  those  two 
young  farmers  had  made,  and  then  said  : 

"  This  is  a  sad  business — a  very  sad  business.  There  is 
the  mucilage  bottle  broken,  and  six  panes  of  glass,  and  a 
spittoon,  and  two  candlesticks.  But  that  is  not  the  worst. 
The  reputation  of  the  paper  is  injured,  and  permanently, 
I  fear.  True,  there  never  was  such  a  call  for  the  paper 
before,  and  it  never  sold  such  a  large  edition  or  soared  to 
such  celebrity  ;  but  does  one  want  to  be  famous  for  lunacy, 
and  prosper  upon  the  infirmities  of  his  mind  ?  My  friend, 
as  I  am  an  honest  man,  the  street  out  here  is  full  of  people, 
and  others  are  roosting  on  the  fences,  waiting  to  get  a 


14  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


"„     J.    tf-s     x      W      *-•/]-•• ^         n     V 


glimpse  of  you,  because  they  think  you  are  crazy.  And 
well  they  might,  after  reading  your  editorials.  They  are  a 
disgrace  to  journalism.  Why,  what  put  it  into  your  head 
that  you  could  edit  a  paper  of  this  nature  ? 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  know  the  first  rudiments  of  agri- 
culture. You  speak  of  a  furrow  and  a  harrow  as  being  the 
same  thing  ;  you  talk  of  the  moulting  season  for  cows  ; 
and  you  recommend  the  domestication  of  the  pole-cat  on 
account  of  its  playfulness  and  its  excellence  as  a  ratter. 
Your  remark  that  clams  will  lie  quiet  if  music  be  played 
to  them  was  superfluous — entirely  superfluous.  Nothing 
disturbs  clams.  Clams  atoays  lie  quiet.  Clams  care 
nothing  whatever  about  music.  Ah,  heavens  and  earth, 
friend  !  if  you  had  made  the  acquiring  of  ignorance  the 
study  of  your  life,  you  could  not  have  graduated  with 
higher  honour  than  you  could  to-day.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing like  it.  Your  observation  that  the  horse-chestnut, 
as  an  article  of  commerce,  is  steadily  'gaining  in  favour  is 


MY    EDITING.  15 


.    .{.  4    A       *  »    v   >  \ 

^1  .„  -~   V    i    v     1 


-~^f> 


1  "...r.  ^  \  .~7r^  -X, 

^    X  ^  J-^'^j 

U  4 

^xi      \     <   ^     \^   <^_^s_^     >        1^  i 

i 

x  _  v  :?.  x   ^  /i*   .-.!  \i  „ i^..* 

>L,    ^"^   v    ."""^Tr.  ? " 

_L_   n  >     n    ' '     n   — /'    n    ^-^   

i  ji «  ,v.  ^  s  /*  .:...^v..f:.x   l;  v 

^    '    V/]'  -       A          v   ^ 

^^    '\1>'  '"V'    ""  >-s"" 

i  .\.:...^  ^  s  ^  .^r...r  -|  .:.-x- «  L^ 
M.    :..^(  <M     ^    V..V.°..  L..V 

/~x  V-X         <\_f         S~^/  W  ^~N  VI 

^7-  "  S  * 

simply  calculated  to  destroy  this  journal.  I  want  you  to 
throw  up  your  situation  and  go.  I  want  no  more  holiday 
— I  could  not  enjoy  it  ii  I  had  it.  Certainly  not  with  you 
in  my  chair.  I  would  always  stand  in  dread  ot  what  you 
might  be  going  to  recommend  next.  It  makes  me  lose  all 
patience  every  time  I  think  oi  your  discussing  oyster-beds 
under  the  head  oi  '  Landscape  Gardening.'  I  want  you  to 
go.  Nothing  on  earth  could  persuade  me  to  take  another 
holiday.  Oh  !  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  didn't 
know  anything  about  agriculture  ?  " 

"  Tell  you,  you  cornstalk,  you  cabbage,  you  son  oi  a 
cauliflower  !  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  such  an  un- 
feeling remark.  I  tell  you  I  have  been  in  the  editorial 
business  going  on  fourteen  years,  and  it  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  heard  of  a  man's  having  to  know  anything  in  order 
to  edit  a  newspaper.  You  turnip  ! 

"  I  take  my  leave,  sir  !  Since  I  have  been  treated  as 
you' have  treated  me,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  go.  But  I 


16  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

•V*'  ^  *?  i 

X.f  s  fe?,   -V.      f    .T. 

L, ..<,.:>,  v.i._!  >.--.-.  (i.  .'.". 

v   c-°    v     y)     (     ^    '   J""1""    V 
?     —     *    .    N    ,^ ^   ^\ 

L*-  :    .^C  "i,  ^..:..Ox:..rv:  ^  f1  .'..b^! 
^  :....y.S?..  ^  o  .Osx     A  x../i->v...\.. 

/\         ^    ^      \          L     "       f    /A- 
/^\],     ,    -V><       b*«  ^     '      * 

A  VENERABLE   IMPOSTOR. 

BY  BRET  HARTE. 

."..r...^...^...^  ^,  r?.  tfN.^... 
v^/i,  ..)..^  -^.-v...:,  I  .  t> 


have  done  my  duty.  I  have  fulfilled  my  contract,  as  far 
as  I  was  permitted  to  do  it.  I  said  I  could  make  your 
paper  of  interest  to  all  classes,  and  I  have.  I  said  I  could 
run  your  circulation  up  to  twenty  thousand  copies,  and  if 
I  had  had  two  more  weeks  I  would  have  done  it.  And  I 
would  have  given  you  the  best  class  of  readers  that  ever 
an  agricultural  paper  had — not  a  farmer  in  it,  nor  a  solitary 
individual  who  could  tell  a  water-melon  from  a  peach-vine 
to  save  his  life.  You  are  the  loser  by  this  rupture,  not  I, 
Pie-plant.  Adios."  I  then  left. 


As  I  glance  across  my  table,  I  am  somewhat  distracted 
by  the  spectacle  of  a  venerable  head,  whose  crown  occa- 
sionally appears  beyond,  at  about  its  level.  The  appari- 
tion of  a  very  small  hand,  whose  fingers  are  bunchy,  and 
have  the  appearance  of  being  slightly  webbed,  which  is 
frequently  lifted  above  the  table  in  a  vain  and  impotent 
attempt  to  reach  the  inkstand,  always  affects  me  as  a 


A    VENERABLE    IMPOSTOR. 


17 


^    ^°»    '---       !°'    '    J 


novelty  at  each  recurrence  of  the  phenomenon.  Yet  both 
the  venerable  head  and  the  bunchy  fingers  belong  to  an 
individual  with  whom  I  am  familiar,  and  to  whom,  for 
certain  reasons  hereafter  described,  I  choose  to  apply  the 
epithet  written  above  this  article. 

His  advent  in  the  family  was  attended  with  peculiar 
circumstances.  He  was  received  with  some  concern,  the 
number  of  retainers  having  been  increased  by  one  in  honour 
of  his  arrival.  He  appeared  to  be  weary  —  his  pretence  was 
that  he  had  come  from  a  long  journey,  —  so  that  for  days, 
weeks,  and  even  months,  he  did  not  leave  his  bed,  except 
when  he  was  carried.  But  it  was  remarkable  that  his 
appetite  was  invariably  regular  and  healthy,  and  that  his 
meals,  which  he  required  should  be  brought  to  him,  were 
seldom  rejected.  During  this  time  he  had  little  conversa- 
tion with  the  family,  his  knowledge  of  our  vernacular  being 
limited,  but  occasionally  spoke  to  himself  in  his  own  lan- 
guage —  a  foreign  tongue.  The  difficulties  attending  this 

2—  (105) 


18  SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


^>     v              C     I          <•     I     _' 
' ^-1     " 


eccentricity  were  obviated  by  the  young  woman  who  had 
from  the  first  taken  him  under  her  protection, — being, 
like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  peculiarly  open  to  impositions, — 
and  who  at  once  disorganised  her  own  tongue  to  suit  his. 
This  was  effected  by  the  contraction  of  the  syllables  of 
some  words,  the  addition  of  syllables  to  others,  and  an 
ingenious  disregard  for  tenses  and  the  governing  powers  of 
the  verb.  The  same  singular  law  which  impels  people  in 
conversation  with  foreigners  to  imitate  their  broken  Eng- 
lish governed  the  family  in  their  communications  with  him. 
He  received  these  evidences  of  his  power  with  an  indiffer- 
ence not  wholly  free  from  scorn  !  The  expression  of  his 
eye  would  occasionally  denote  that  his  higher  nature  re- 
volted from  them.  I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  his  wants 
were  frequently  misinterpreted  ;  that  the  stretching  forth 
of  his  hands  towards  the  moon  and  stars  might  have  been 
the  performance  of  some  religious  rite  peculiar  to  his  own 
country,  which  was  in  ours  misconstrued  into  a  desire  for 
physical  nourishment.  His  repetition  of  the  word  "  goo- 
goo," — which  was  subject  to  a  variety  of  opposite 


A    VENERABLE    IMPOSTOR.  19 

^c  L,    ^>   *..y,    "r^T"^  ^  %   ^  o  ..\x/  . 

£,.*. 

^_ < .  P       N  ^-v\        VI          *^1 

^•\»       '        j       •  -••/^1 ' 

.T^...(..  o .:.  ^^  .-:..!.;  l.y  ^  .'A 

i  ,    •  \  i 

J^^\  ^>^-/  il      °      *  ' 

^    .*>.      v>  ..\/j..,    ...     L  .\^T.    A^    o  ..p. 

'   .^V    :..M  dT  ^  4  ^NO:  .  J}..±,  ^ 

V  V   • 


•V    ^H 


interpretations, — when  taken  in  conjunction  with  his  size,  in 
my  mind  seemed  to  indicate  his  aboriginal  or  Aztec  origin. 
I  incline  to  this  belief,  as  it  sustains  the  impression  I  have 
already  hinted  at,  that  his  extreme  youth  is  a  simulation 
and  deceit ;  that  he  is  really  older  and  has  lived  before 
at  some  remote  period,  and  that  his  conduct  fully  justifies 
his  title  as  "  A  Venerable  Impostor."  A  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances corroborate  this  impression  :  his  tottering 
walk,  which  is  a  senile  as  well  as  a  juvenile  condition  ;  his 
venerable  head,  thatched  with  such  imperceptible  hair 
that,  at  a  distance,  it  looks  like  a  mild  aureola  ;  and  his 
imperfect  dental  exhibition.  But  besides  these  physical 
peculiarities  may  be  observed  certain  moral  symptoms, 
which  go  to  disprove  his  assumed  youth.  He  is  in  the 
habit  of  falling  into  reveries,  caused,  I  have  no  doubt,  by 
some  circumstance  which  suggests  a  comparison  with  his 
experience  in  his  remoter  boyhood,  or  by  some  serious 
retrospection  of  the  past  years.  He  has  been  detected 
lying  awake  at  times  when  he  should  have  been  asleep, 


20 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


o      ,5- 

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engaged  in  curiously  comparing  the  bed-clothes,  walls,  and 
furniture  with  some  recollection  of  his  youth.  At  such 
moments  he  has  been  heard  to  sing  softly  to  himself  frag- 
ments of  some  unintelligible  composition,  which  probably 
still  linger  in  his  memory,  as  the  echoes  of  a  music  he  has 
long  outgrown.  He  has  the  habit  of  receiving  strangers 
with  the  familiarity  of  one  who  had  met  them  before,  and 
to  whom  their  antecedents  and  peculiarities  were  matters 
of  old  acquaintance  ;  and  so  unerring  is  his  judgment  of 
their  previous  character,  that  when  he  withholds  his  con- 
fidence I  am  apt  to  withhold  mine.  It  is  somewhat  re- 
markable that  while  the  maturity  of  his  years  and  the 
respect  due  to  them  is  denied  by  man,  his  superiority  and 
venerable  age  is  never  questioned  by  the  brute  creation. 
The  dog  treats  him  with  a  respect  and  consideration 
accorded  to  none  others,  and  the  cat  permits  a  familiarity 
which  I  should  shudder  to  attempt.  It  may  be  considered 
an  evidence  of  some  Pantheistic  quality  in  his  previous 
education  that  he  seems  to  recognise  a  fellowship  even  in 


A    VENERABLE    IMPOSTOR.  21 


inarticulate  objects  ;  he  has  been  known  to  verbally  ad- 
dress plants,  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  to  extend  his  confidence 
to  such  inanimate  objects  as  chairs  and  tables.  There  can 
be  little  doubt  that,  in  the  remote  period  of  his  youth, 
these  objects  were  endowed  with  not  only  sentient  natures, 
but  moral  capabilities,  and  he  is  still  in  the  habit  of  beat- 
ing them  when  they  collide  with  him,  and  of  pardoning 
them  with  a  kiss. 

As  he  has  grown  older  —  rather,  let  me  say,  as  we  have 
approximated  to  his  years  —  he  has,  in  spite  of  the  apparent 
paradox,  lost  much  of  his  senile  gravity.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  some  of  his  actions  of  late  appear  to  our 
imperfect  comprehension  inconsistent  with  his  extreme 
age.  A  habit  of  marching  up  and  down  with  a  string  tied 
to  a  soda-water  bottle  ;  a  disposition  to  ride  anything  that 
could,  by  any  exercise  of  the  liveliest  fancy,  be  made  to 
assume  equine  proportions  ;  a  propensity  to  blacken  his 
venerable  white  hair  with  ink  and  coal-dust  ;  and  an 
omnivorous  appetite,  which  did  not  stop  at  chalk,  clay, 


22  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


or  cinders  ;  were  peculiarities  not  calculated  to  excite 
respect. 

In  fact,  he  would  seem  to  have  become  demoralised, 
and  when,  after  a  prolonged  absence  the  other  day,  he  was 
finally  discovered  standing  upon  the  front  steps  addressing 
a  group  of  delighted  children  out  of  his  limited  vocabulary, 
the  circumstance  could  only  be  accounted  for  as  the 
garrulity  of  age. 

But  I  lay  aside  my  pen  amidst  an  ominous  silence  and 
the  disappearance  of  the  venerable  head  from  my  plane 
of  vision.  As  I  step  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  I  find 
that  sleep  has  overtaken  him  in  an  overt  act  of  hoary 
wickedness.  The  very  pages  I  have  devoted  to  an  exposi- 
tion of  his  deceit  he  has  quietly  abstracted,  and  I  find 
them  covered  with  cabalistic  figures  and  wild-looking 
hieroglyphs,  traced  with  his  forefinger  dipped  in  ink,  which 
doubtless  in  his  own  language  conveys  a  scathing  commen- 
tary on  my  composition.  But  he  sleeps  peacefully,  and 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE.    23 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST 
TABLE. 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


there  is  something  in  his  face  which  tells  me  that  he  has 
already  wandered  away  to  that  dim  region  of  his  youth 
where  I  cannot  follow  him.  And  as  there  comes  a  strange 
stirring  at  my  heart  when  I  contemplate  the  immeasurable 
gulf  which  lies  between  us,  and  how  slight  and  feeble  as 
yet  is  his  grasp  on  this  world  and  its  strange  realities,  I 
find,  too  late,  that  I  also  am.  a  willing  victim  of  the 
"  Venerable  Impostor." 


I  wonder  if  anybody  ever  finds  fault  with  anything  I  say 
at  this  table  when  it  is  repeated  ?  I  hope  they  do,  I  am 
sure.  I  should  be  very  certain  that  I  said  nothing  of  much 
significance,  if  they  did  not. 

Did  you  never,  in  walking  in  the  fields,  come  across  a 
large  flat  stone,  which  had  lain,  nobody  knows  how  long, 
just  where  you  found  it,  with  the  grass  forming  a  little 
hedge,  as  it  were,  all  round  it,  close  to  its  edges, — and  have 


24 


SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


VV-:^    ^ 


you  not,  in  obedience  to  a  kind  of  feeling  that  told  you  it 
had  been  lying  there  long  enough,  insinuated  your  stick 
or  your  foot  or  your  fingers  under  its  edge  and  turned  it 
over  as  a  housewife  turns  a  cake,  when  she  says  to  herself, 
"  It's  done  brown  enough  by  this  time  ?  "  What  an  odd 
revelation,  and  what  an  unforeseen  and  unpleasant  surprise 
to  a  small  community,  the  very  existence  of  which  you 
had  not  suspected,  until  the  sudden  dismay  and  scattering 
among  its  members  produced  by  your  turning  the  old 
stone  over  !  Blades  of  grass  flattened  down,  colourless, 
matted  together,  as  if  they  had  been  bleached  and  ironed  ; 
hideous  crawling  creatures,  motionless,  slug-like  creatures, 
young  larvae,  perhaps  more  horrible  in  their  pulpy  stillness 
than  even  in  the  infernal  wriggle  of  maturity  !  But  no 
sooner  is  the  stone  turned  and  the  wholesome  light  of  day 
let  upon  this  compressed  and  blinded  community  of  creep- 
ing things,  than  all  of  them  which  enjoy  the  luxury  of  legs — 
and  some  of  them  have  a  good  many — rush  round  wildly. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OK  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


25 


£.  (>* 
-j.-'-V-' 


S                                      "4 

I      v                      (       1 

'  /  -         1  -  ^       ^^ 

-/            6      \_    ^ 
(.     ^               1 

X^  .      ^ 

L..?.\. 

^../.x^.> 

5w     0      -—  ^         ^-s.'* 

.     ^    o    ^-^     \S 

I  ^r\  .^  * 

:  l^ci  ^ 

butting  each  other  and  everything  in  their  way,  and  end 
in  a  general  stampede  for  underground  retreats  from  the 
region  poisoned  by  sunshine.  Next  year  you  will  find  the 
grass  growing  tall  and  green  where  the  stone  lay  ;  the 
ground-bird  builds  her  nest  where  the  beetle  had  his  hole  ; 
the  dandelion  and  the  buttercup  are  growing  there,  and 
the  broad  fans  of  insect  angels  open  and  shut  over  their 
golden  disks,  as  the  rhythmic  waves  of  blissful  conscious- 
ness pulsate  through  their  glorified  being. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  saw  fit  to  say, 
in  his  very  familiar  way, — at  which  I  do  not  choose  to 
take  offence,  but  which  I  sometimes  think  it  necessary  to 
repress, — that  I  was  coming  it  rather  strong  on  the 
butterflies. 

No,  I  replied  ;  there  is  meaning  in  each  of  those  images, 
— the  butterfly  as  well  as  the  others.  The  stone  is  ancient 
error.  The  grass  is  human  nature  borne  down  and 
bleached  of  all  its  colour  by  it.  The  shapes  which  are 
seen  beneath  are  the  crafty  beings  that  thrive  in  darkness, 
and  the  weaker  organisms  kept  helpless  by  it.  He  who 


26 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


turns  the  stone  over  is  whosoever  puts  the  staff  of  truth 
to  the  old  lying  incubus,  no  matter  whether  he  do  it  with 
a  serious  face  or  a  laughing  one.  The  next  year  stands  for 
the  coming  time.  Then  shall  the  nature  which  had  lain 
blanched  and  broken  rise  in  its  full  stature  and  native  hues 
in  the  sunshine.  Then  shall  God's  minstrels  build  their 
nests  in  the  hearts  of  a  new-born  humanity.  Then  shall 
beauty — Divinity  taking  outlines  and  colour — light  upon 
the  souls  of  men  as  the  butterfly,  image  of  the  beatified 
spirit  rising  from  the  dust,  soars  from  the  shell  that  held 
a  poor  grub,  which  would  never  have  found  wings,  had 
not  the  stone  been  lifted. 

You  never  need  think  you  can  turn  over  any  old  false- 
hood without  a  terrible  squirming  and  scattering  of  the 
horrid  little  population  that  dwells  under  it. 

Every  real  thought  on  every  real  subject  knocks  the 
wind  out  of  somebody  or  other.  As  soon  as  his  breath 
comes  back,  he  very  probably  begins  to  expend  it  in  hard 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE.     27 


words.  These  are  the  best  evidence  a  man  can  have  that 
he  has  said  something  it  was  time  to  say.  Dr.  Johnson 
was  disappointed  in  the  effect  of  one  of  his  pamphlets. 
"  I  think  I  have  not  been  attacked  enough  for  it,"  he  said  ; 
—  "  attack  is  the  reaction  ;  I  never  think  I  have  hit  hard 
unless  it  rebounds." 

If  a  fellow  attacked  my  opinions  in  print,  would  I  reply  ? 
Not  I.  Do  you  think  I  don't  understand  what  my  friend 
the  Professor  long  ago  called  the  hydrostatic  paradox  of 
controversy  ? 

Don't  know  what  that  means  ?  Well,  I  will  tell  you. 
You  know  that,  if  you  had  a  bent  tube,  one  arm  of  which 
was  the  size  of  a  pipe-stem,  and  the  other  big  enough 
to  hold  the  ocean,  water  would  stand  at  the  same  height 
in  one  as  in  the  other.  Controversy  equalizes  fools  and 
wise  men  in  the  same  way  —  and  the  fools  know  it. 


THE  WAY  TO  WEALTH. 

BY  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

v 


Courteous  reader,  I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an 
author  so  great  pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully 
quoted  by  others.  Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  have 
been  gratified  by  an  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you. 
I  stopped  my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  people 
were  collected  at  an  auction  of  merchants'  goods.  The 
hour  of  the  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on 
the  badness  of  the  times  ;  and  one  of  the  company  called 
to  a  plain,  clean,  old  man,  with  white  locks,  "  Pray, 
Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times  ?  Will  not 
these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country  ?  How  shall  we 
ever  be  able  to  pay  them  ?  What  would  you  advise  us 
to  ?  "  Father  Abraham  stood  up  and  replied,  "  If  you 
would  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short ;  for 
'  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,'  as  Poor  Richard  says." 
They  joined  in  desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and 
gathering  round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows. 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy, 
and,  if  those  laid  on  by  the  government  were  the  only 

28 


THE   WAY   TO   WEALTH.  29 


ones  we  had  to  pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them  ; 
but  we  have  many  others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some 
of  us.  We  are  taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three 
times  as  much  by  our  pride,  and  four  times  as  much  by 
our  folly  ;  and  from  these  taxes  the  commissioners  cannot 
ease  or  deliver  us,  by  allowing  an  abatement.  However, 
let  us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be  done 
for  us  ;  '  God  helps  them  that  help  themselves/  as  Poor 
Richard  says. 

"  I.  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should 
tax  its  people  one-tenth  part  of  their  time,  to  be  employed 
in  its  service  ;  but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more  ; 
sloth,  by  bringing  on  diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life. 
'  Sloth  like  rust,  consumes  faster  than  labour  wears  ;  while 
the  used  key  is  always  bright,'  as  Poor  Richard  says.  '  But 
dost  thou  love  life,  then  do  not  squander  time,  for  that  is 
the  stuff  life  is  made  of, '  as  Poor  Richard  says.  How  much 
more  than  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in  sleep,  forgetting 


30  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


that '  The  sleeping  fox  catches  no  poultry, '  and  that '  There 
will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the  grave/  as  Poor  Richard  says. 
"  '  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting 
time  must  be,'  as  Poor  Richard  says,  '  the  greatest  prodi- 
gality ;  '  since,  as  he  elsewhere  tells  us,  '  Lost  time  is  never 
found  again  ;  and  what  we  call  time  enough,  always  proves 
little  enough.'  Let  us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to 
the  purpose  ;  so  by  diligence  shall  we  do  more  with  less 
perplexity.  '  Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry 
all  easy  ;  '  and  '  He  that  riseth  late  must  trot  all  day,  and 
shall  scarce  overtake  his  business  at  night ;  '  while  '  Lazi- 
ness travels  so  slowly,  that  Poverty  soon  overtakes  him. 
Drive  thy  business,  let  not  that  drive  thee  ;  '  and  '  Early 
to  bed,  and  early  to  rise,  makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy, 
and  wise,'  as  Poor  Richard  says. 


THE    WAY   TO    WEALTH.  31 


i     '  S\    Q     V 

./  ----     <5      \.     V       V| 


"  So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better  times  ? 
We  may  make  these  times  better  if  we  bestir  ourselves. 
'  Industry  need  not  wish,  and  he  that  lives  upon  hopes  will 
die  fasting.  There  are  no  gains  without  pains  ;  then  help, 
hands,  for  I  have  no  lands  ;  '  or,  if  I  have,  they  are  smartly 
taxed.  '  He  that  hath  a  trade  hath  an  estate  ;  and  he 
that  hath  a  calling  hath  an  office  of  profit  and  honour,'  as 
Poor  Richard  says  ;  but  then  the  trade  must  be  worked 
at  and  the  calling  followed,  or  neither  the  estate  nor  the 
office  will  enable  us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious 
we  shall  never  starve  ;  for  '  At  the  working-man's  house 
hunger  looks  in,  but  dare  not  enter.'  Nor  will  the  bailiff 
or  the  constable  enter,  for  '  Industry  pays  debts,  while 
despair  increaseth  them.'  What  though  you  have  found 
no  treasure,  nor  has  any  rich  relation  left  you  a  legacy, 
'  Diligence  is  the  mother  of  good  luck,  and  God  gives  all 
things  to  industry.  Then  plough  deep  while  sluggards 
sleep,  and  you  shall  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep.  '  Work 


32  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


while  it  is  called  to-day,  for  you  know  not  how  much  you 
may  be  hindered  to-morrow.  '  One  to-day  is  worth  two 
to-morrows,'  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  further,  '  Never 
leave  that  till  to-morrow  which  you  can  do  to-day.'  If 
you  were  a  servant,  would  you  not  be  ashamed  that  a  good 
master  should  catch  you  idle  ?  Are  you  then  your  own 
master  ?  Be  ashamed  to  catch  yourself  idle,  when  there 
is  so  much  to  be  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your 
country,  and  your  king.  Handle  your  tools  without  mit- 
tens ;  remember  that '  The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no  mice,' 
as  Poor  Richard  says.  It  is  true  there  is  much  to  be  done, 
and  perhaps  you  are  weak-handed  ;  but  stick  to  it  steadily 
and  you  will  see  great  effects ;  for  '  Constant  dropping  wears 
away  stones  ;  '  and  '  By  diligence  and  patience  the  mouse 
ate  in  two  the  cable  ;  '  and  '  Little  strokes  fell  great  oaks.' 
"  Methinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  '  Must  a  man  afford 
himself  no  leisure  ?  '  I  will  tell  thee,  my  friend,  what  Poor 
Richard  says  :  '  Employ  thy  time  well,  if  thou  meanest 


THE    WAY   TO    WEALTH.  33 


.....N...^-  Y,   j   \_ 


to  gain  leisure  ;  and,  since  thou  art  not  sure  of  a  minute, 
throw  not  away  an  hour. '  Leisure  is  time  for  doing  some- 
thing useful ;  this  leisure  the  diligent  man  will  obtain,  but 
the  lazy  man  never  ;  for  '  A  life  of  leisure  and  a  life  of 
laziness  are  two  things.  Many,  without  labour,  would  live 
by  their  wits  only,  but  they  break  for  want  of  stock  ;  ' 
whereas  industry  gives  comfort,  and  plenty  and  respect. 
'  Fly  pleasures,  and  they  will  follow  you.  The  diligent 
spinner  has  a  large  shift ;  and  now  I  have  a  sheep  and  a 
cow,  everybody  bids  me  good  morrow.' 

"  II.  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady, 
settled,  and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs,  with  our 
own  eyes,  and  not  trust  too  much  to  others  ;  for,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  "  '  I  never  saw  an  oft-removed  tree, 

Nor  yet  an  oft-removed  family, 
That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. ' 
3— (105) 


34 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


'V, 


J,  .-;  ^,  ^x'   .r. 


y  .  .>...•    i;1  .  .  r?^..c-  c  \- 

<L,  *^  , :  v,  o^,  ^.^,  <s  T\X    ..: 

S  —  ^   i  ^    ^;    ^  \..Y..y  .K.O 

\,  \.:.j...  \  >/T;  .'  ^..:..V  <1  > 

And  again,  '  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire  ;  '  and 
again,  '  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep  thee  ;  '  and 
again,  '  If  you  would  have  your  business  done,  go  ;  if  not, 
send.'  And  again, 

"  '  He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 

Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive.' 

And  again,  '  the  eye  of  a  master  will  do  more  work  than 
both  his  hands  ;  '  and  again,  '  Want  of  care  does  us  more 
damage  than  want  of  knowledge  ;  '  and  again,  '  Not  to 
oversee  workmen  is  to  leave  them  your  purse  open.' 
Trusting  too  much  to  others'  care  is  the  ruin  of  many  ; 
for  '  In  the  affairs  of  this  world  men  are  saved,  not  by 
faith,  but  by  the  want  of  it ;  '  but  a  man's  own  care  is 
profitable  ;  for,  '  If  you  would  have  a  faithful  servant, 
and  one  that  you  like,  serve  yourself.  A  little  neglect  may 
breed  great  mischief  ;  for  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ; 
for  want  of  a  shoe  the  horse  was  lost ;  and  for  want  of  a 
horse  the  rider  was  lost,  being  overtaken  and  slain  by  the 


THE    WAY    TO    WEALTH.  35 


enemy  ;  all  for  want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horse-shoe 
nail.' 

"  III.  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention 
to  one's  own  business  ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality, 
if  we  would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  successful. 
A  man  may,  if  he  knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep 
his  nose  all  his  life  to  the  grindstone  and  die  not  worth  a 
groat  at  last.  '  A  fat  kitchen  makes  a  lean  will ;  '  and 

"  '  Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 
And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting.' 

'  If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving  as  well  as  of 
getting.  The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich,  because 
her  outgoes  are  greater  than  her  incomes. 

"  Away  then  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you  will 
not  then  have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times, 


36  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  families  ;    for 

'  Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 

Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  want  great.' 
And  further, '  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  up  two 
children.'  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a  little  tea,  or  a 
little  punch  now  and  then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes 
a  little  finer,  and  a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can 
be  no  great  matter  ;  but  remember,  '  Many  a  little  makes 
a  mickle.'  Beware  of  little  expenses  ;  '  A  small  leak  will 
sink  a  great  ship,'  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and  again,  '  Who 
dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove  ;  '  and  moreover,  '  Fools 
make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat  them.' 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries 
and  knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods  ;  but,  if  you  do 
not  take  care,  they  will  prove  evils  to  some  of  you.  You 
expect  they  will  be  sold  cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for 
less  than  they  cost ;  but  if  you  have  no  occasion  for  them, 


THE    WAY    TO    WEALTH.  37 


U 


,.       \   .'.. 

3:   '>...'..      <  -.."..  ^r.. 


'V   V   ~..,..;  TV  V? 


Y 


they  must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember  what  Poor  Richard 
says  :  '  Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere  long  thou 
shalt  sell  thy  necessaries.'  And  again,  '  At  a  great  penny- 
worth pause  a  while.  '  He  means,  that  perhaps  the  cheapness 
is  apparent  only  and  not  real  ;  or  the  bargain,  by  straiten- 
ing thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm  than  good. 
For  in  another  place  he  says,  '  Many  have  been  ruined  by 
buying  good  pennyworths.'  Again,  '  it  is  foolish  to  lay  out 
money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance  ;  '  and  yet  this  folly  is 
practised  every  day  at  auctions,  for  want  of  minding  the 
A  Imanac.  Many  a  one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the  back, 
have  gone  with  a  hungry  belly  and  half-starved  their 
families.  '  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put  out 
the  kitchen  fire,'  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  These  are  not  the  necessaries  of  life  ;  they  can  scarcely 
be  called  the  conveniences  ;  and  yet,  only  because  they 
look  pretty,  how  many  want  to  have  them  !  By  these,  and 


449529 


38  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


N  \/ .  L  <  w; 

")  fe;   ^> 


other  extravagances,  the  genteel  are  reduced  to  poverty, 
and  forced  to  borrow  of  those  whom  they  formerly  despised, 
but  who,  through  industry  and  frugality,  have  maintained 
their  standing  ;  in  which  case  it  appears  plainly,  that  '  A 
ploughman  on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on  his 
knees,'  as  Poor  Richard  says.  Perhaps  they  have  had  a 
small  estate  left  them,  which  they  knew  not  the  getting  of  ; 
they  think,  '  It  is  day  and  will  never  be  night ;  '  that  a 
little  to  be  spent  out  of  so  much  is  not  worth  minding  ; 
but '  Always  taking  out  of  the  meal-tub  and  never  putting 
in,  soon  comes  to  the  bottom/  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and 
then,  '  When  the  well  is  dry,  they  know  the  worth  of 
water.'  But  this  they  might  have  known  before,  if  they 
had  taken  his  advice.  '  If  you  would  know  the  value  of 
money,  go  and  try  to  borrow  some  ;  for  he  that  goes  a 
borrowing  goes  a  sorrowing,'  as  Poor  Richard  says  ;  and 
indeed  so  does  he  that  lends  to  such  people,  when  he  goes 
to  get  it  in  again.  Poor  Dick  further  advises,  and  says, 


THE    WAY    TO    WEALTH.  39 

*  V- * '..*-:. *>  «H»; 


"  '  Fond  pride  of  dress  is  sure  a  very  curse  ; 

Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse.' 
And  again,  '  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and  a  great 
deal  more  saucy. '  When  you  have  bought  one  fine  thing, 
you  must  buy  ten  more,  that  your  appearance  may  be  all 
of  a  piece  ;  but  Poor  Dick  says,  '  It  is  easier  to  suppress 
the  first  desire,  than  to  satisfy  all  that  follow  it.'  And  it 
is  as  truly  folly  for  the  poor  to  ape  the  rich,  as  for  the  frog 
to  swell  in  order  to  equal  the  ox. 

"  '  Vessels  large  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore.' 
It  is,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished  ;  for  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  '  Pride  that  dines  on  vanity,  sups  on  contempt. 
Pride  breakfasted  with  Plenty,  dined  with  Poverty,  and 
supped  with  Infamy.'  And,  after  all,  of  what  use  is  this 
pride  of  appearance,  for  which  so  much  is  risked,  so  much 
is  suffered  ?  It  cannot  promote  health  nor  ease  pain  ;  it 


40 


SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


makes  no  increase  of  merit  in  the  person  ;  it  creates  envy  ; 
it  hastens  misfortune. 

"  But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these 
superfluities  ?  We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of  this  sale, 
six  months'  credit ;  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some 
of  us  to  attend  it,  because  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money, 
and  hope  now  to  be  fine  without  it.  But,  ah  !  think  what 
you  do  when  you  run  in  debt ;  you  give  to  another  power 
over  your  liberty.  If  you  cannot  pay  at  the  time,  you 
will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  creditor  ;  you  will  be  in  fear 
when  you  speak  to  him  ;  you  will  make  poor,  pitiful, 
sneaking  excuses,  and,  by  degrees,  come  to  lose  your 
veracity,  and  sink  into  base,  downright  lying  ;  for  '  The 
second  vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running  in  debt,"  as  Poor 
Richard  says  ;  and  again,  to  the  same  purpose,  '  Lying 
rides  upon  Debt's  back  ;  '  whereas  a  free-born  Englishman 
ought  not  to  be  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to  any 
man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a  man  of  all  spirit 


THE    WAY    TO    WEALTH. 


41 


•> 


and  virtue.  '  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to  stand  upright.' 
"  What  would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  of  that 
government,  who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to 
dress  like  a  gentleman  or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprison- 
ment or  servitude  ?  Would  you  not  say  that  you  were 
free,  have  a  right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an 
edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such  a 
government  tyrannical  ?  And  yet  you  are  about  to  put 
yourself  under  such  tyranny,  when  you  run  in  debt  for  such 
dress  !  Your  creditor  has  authority,  at  his  pleasure,  to 
deprive  you  of  your  liberty,  by  confining  you  in  jail  till 
you  shall  be  able  to  pay  him.  When  you  have  got  your 
bargain,  you  may,  perhaps,  think  little  of  payment ;  but, 
as  Poor  Richard  says,  '  creditors  have  better  memories 
than  debtors  ;  creditors  are  a  superstitious  sect,  great 
observers  of  set  days  and  times.'  The  day  comes  round 
before  you  are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made  before  you 
are  prepared  to  satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in 


42  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


I     . 


mind,  the  term,  which  at  first  seemed  so  long,  will,  as  it 
lessens,  appear  extremely  short.  Time  will  seem  to  have 
added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his  shoulders.  '  Those 
have  a  short  Lent  who  owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.' 
At  present,  perhaps,  you  may  think  yourselves  in  thriving 
circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear  a  little  extravagance, 
without  injury  ;  but 

"  '  For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may  ; 

No  morning  sun  lasts  the  whole  day." 
Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain,  but  ever  while  you 
live,  expense  is  constant  and  certain  ;  and  '  It  is  easier  to 
build  two  chimneys  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,'  as  Poor 
Richard  says  ;  so  '  Rather  go  to  bed  supperless,  than  rise 
in  debt.' 

"  '  Get  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get  hold  ; 

'Tis  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold. ' 


THE    WAY   TO    WEALTH.  43 


"IV.   C    I,    ^,    o..r. 


And,  when  you  have  got  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  sure  you 
will  no  longer  complain  of  bad  times  or  the  difficulty  of 
paying  taxes. 

"IV.  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom  ; 
but,  after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own 
industry,  and  frugality,  and  prudence,  though  excellent 
things  :  for  they  may  all  be  blasted,  without  the  blessing 
of  Heaven  ;  and,  therefore,  ask  that  blessing  humbly,  and 
be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at  present  seem  to  want 
it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Remember,  Job  suffered 
and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

"  And  now,  to  conclude,  '  Experience  keeps  a  dear 
school,  but  fools  will  learn  in  no  other,'  as  Poor  Richard 
says,  and  scarce  in  that  ;  for,  it  is  true,  '  We  may  give 
advice,  but  we  cinnot  give  conduct.'  However,  remember 
this,  '  They  that  will  not  be  counselled,  cannot  be  helped  ; 
and  further,  that,  '  If  you  will  not  hear  Reason,  she  will 
surely  rap  your  knuckles/  as  Poor  Richard  says." 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The  people 
heard  it  and  approved  the  doctrine  ;  and  immediately 
practised  the  contrary,  just  as  if  it  had  been  a  common 
sermon  ;  for  the  auction  opened  and  they  began  to  buy 
extravagantly.  I  found  the  good  man  had  thoroughly 
studied  my  almanacks,  and  digested  all  I  had  dropped  on 
these  topics  during  the  course  of  twenty-five  years.  The 
frequent  mention  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired  anyone 
else  ;  but  my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  it, 
though  I  was  conscious  that  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  wisdom 
was  my  own,  which  he  had  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the 
gleanings  that  I  had  made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages  and 
nations.  However,  I  resolved  to  be  the  better  for  the  echo 
of  it ;  and,  though  I  had  at  first  determined  to  buy  stuff 
for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to  wear  my  old  one  a 
little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt  do  the  same,  thy  profit 
will  be  as  great  as  mine.  I  am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve 
thee, — RICHARD  SAUNDERS. 


THE   TELL-TALE   HEART. 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

c>  <> 


>.<..     ^?   .  i  .:       .  *p.: 

~  I          /  \          *  1  V        <       * 

fJ        V  "  V          ,       /       <i_P        ..  .  .  7>y..  •_,  *  ...      ^     .    . 

V.  ^  X.    v.  s    "^  o>  -  r..    *,  C, 


True  !  nervous,  very,  very,  dreadfully  nervous  I  have 
been  and  am  ;  but  why  will  you  say  that  I  am  mad  ? 
The  disease  had  sharpened  my  senses,  not  destroyed,  not 
dulled  them.  Above  all,  was  the  sense  of  hearing  acute. 
I  heard  all  things  in  the  Heaven  and  in  the  earth.  I  heard 
many  things  in  hell.  How,  then,  am  I  mad  ?  Hearken  ! 
and  observe  how  healthily,  how  calmly  I  can  tell  you  the 
whole  story. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  first  the  idea  entered  my 
brain,  but,  once  conceived,  it  haunted  me  day  and  night. 
Object  there  was  none.  Passion  there  was  none.  I  loved 
the  old  man.  He  had  never  wronged  me.  He  had  never 
given  me  insult.  For  his  gold  I  had  no  desire.  I  think  it 
was  his  eye  !  Yes,  it  was  this  !  One  of  his  eyes  resembled 
that  of  a  vulture  —  a  pale,  blue  eye  with  a  film  over  it. 
Whenever  it  fell  upon  me  my  blood  ran  cold,  and  so  by 

45 


46  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


degrees,  very  gradually,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  the 
life  of  the  old  man,  and  thus  rid  myself  of  the  eye  for  ever. 
Now,  this  is  the  point.  You  fancy  me  mad.  Madmen 
know  nothing.  But  you  should  have  seen  me.  You 
should  have  seen  how  wisely  I  proceeded — with  what  cau- 
tion— with  what  foresight — with  what  dissimulation,  I 
went  to  work  !  I  was  never  kinder  to  the  old  man  than 
during  the  whole  week  before  I  killed  him.  And  every 
night,  about  midnight,  I  turned  the  latch  of  his  door,  and 
opened  it — oh,  so  gently  !  And  then,  when  I  had  made  an 
opening  sufficient  for  my  head,  I  put  in  a  dark  lantern  all 
closed, — closed  so  that  no  light  shone  out ;  and  then  I 
thrust  in  my  head.  Oh,  you  would  have  laughed  to  see 
how  cunningly  I  thrust  it  in  !  I  moved  it  slowly,  very, 
very  slowly,  so  that  I  might  not  disturb  the  old  man's 
sleep.  It  took  me  an  hour  to  place  my  whole  head  within 
the  opening  so  far  that  I  could  see  him  as  he  lay  upon  his 
bed.  Ha  !  would  a  madman  have  been  so  wise  as  this  ? 


THE    TELL-TALE    HEART.  47 


,     V      I       PS     /      ^o     .C?,      I     0..^..% 


And  then  when  my  head  was  well  in  the  room,  I  undid  the 
lantern  cautiously — oh,  so  cautiously — cautiously  (for  the 
hinges  creaked)  !  I  undid  it  just  so  much  that  a  single 
thin  ray  fell  upon  the  vulture  eye.  And  this  I  did  for 
seven  long  nights,  every  night  just  at  midnight ;  but  I 
found  the  eye  always  closed,  and  so  it  was  impossible  to  do 
the  work,  for  it  was  not  the  old  man  who  vexed  me,  but 
his  evil  eye.  And  every  morning,  when  the  day  broke,  I 
went  boldly  into  the  chamber  and  spoke  courageously  to 
him,  calling  him  by  name  in  a  hearty  tone,  and  inquiring 
how  he  had  passed  the  night.  So  you  see  he  would  have 
been  a  very  profound  old  man,  indeed,  to  suspect  that  every 
night,  just  at  twelve,  I  looked  in  upon  him  while  he  slept. 
Upon  the  eighth  night  I  was  more  than  usually  cautious 
in  opening  the  door.  A  watch's  minute-hand  moves  more 
quickly  than  did  mine.  Never  before  that  night  had  I  felt 
the  extent  of  my  own  powers,  of  my  sagacity.  I  could 
scarcely  contain  my  feelings  of  triumph.  To  think  that 


48  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


•v----Kf    i  '  '  -^  v    -  /- 

•G~..u-  -U     ^  i.  :>....":,     V^.Z 

No  l^s  N/^     *• 


k...«|..i   \  ,   s    ^,   ^  "X  .".   v    t     ^  L 

^  ^  r .<...-.. i.v--,  ^.  oL)°.v-. 

I  V^s 

^-^-^{^^   /«   ^-<)-Ws 

1..^°},  .r.  )  ^....C....^^  .'  i^,  *..- 


^  1  ±  A->  '. 

>     V.     s 

^ 

<  ,  -  c^ 

^  \   ,  v^^,  ^ 

£-^   A. 

^v 

v—  /               c  s_^ 
V,    .                .1... 

6'"            "d~" 

.  ..AIJ 

1   ' 

"«  )?" 

-  -.^  f  - 

—  ^* 

<L 

r  .^..  a  r\. 

•  ^-^    '  .v^—  i    .  >j 

/ 

r 

J..x        y..^...f. 

\   ^.    v,../T  ;     tf 

\A              ^>V 

v 

™        ^    >    » 

^O 

J 

X 

^    ^    ^x 

V 

there  I  was  opening  the  door  little  by  little,  and  he  not 
even  to  dream  of  my  secret  deeds  or  thoughts.  I  fairly 
chuckled  at  the  idea  ;  and  perhaps  he  heard  me,  for  he 
moved  on  the  bed  suddenly  as  if  startled.  Now  you  may 
think  that  I  drew  back — but  no.  His  room  was  as  black 
as  pitch  with  the  thick  darkness  (for  the  shutters  were  close 
fastened  through  fear  of  robbers),  and  so  I  knew  that  he 
could  not  see  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  I  kept  pushing 
it  on  steadily,  steadily. 

I  had  my  head  in,  and  was  about  to  open  the  lantern, 
when  my  thumb  slipped  upon  the  tin  fastening,  and  the 
old  man  sprang  up  in  the  bed,  crying  out,  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

I  kept  quite  still  and  said  nothing.  For  a  whole  hour  I 
did  not  move  a  muscle,  and  in  the  meantime  I  did  not  hear 
him  lie  down.  He  was  still  sitting  up  in  bed,  listening  ; 
just  as  I  have  done  night  after  night,  hearkening  to  the 
dead  watches  in  the  wall. 


THE    TELL-TALE    HEART.  49 


Presently  I  heard  a  slight  groan,  and  I  knew  it  was  the 
groan  of  mortal  terror.  It  was  not  a  groan  of  pain  or  of 
grief — oh  no  !  It  was  the  low,  stifled  sound  that  arises 
from  the  bottom  of  the  soul  when  overcharged  with  awe. 
I  knew  the  sound  well.  Many  a  night,  just  at  midnight, 
when  all  the  world  slept,  it  has  welled  up  from  my  own 
bosom,  deepening,  with  its  dreadful  echo,  the  terrors  that 
distracted  me.  I  say  I  knew  it  well.  I  knew  what  the 
old  man  felt,  and  pitied  him,  although  I  chuckled  at  heart. 
I  knew  that  he  had  been  lying  awake  ever  since  the  first 
slight  noise  when  he  had  turned  in  the  bed. 

His  fears  had  been  ever  since  growing  upon  him.  He 
had  been  trying  to  fancy  them  causeless,  but  could  not. 
He  had  been  saying  to  himself,  "  It  is  nothing  but  the 
wind  in  the  chimney,  it  is  only  a  mouse  crossing  the 
floor  ;  "  or,  "  It  is  merely  a  cricket  which  has  made  a  single 
chirp."  Yes,  he  had  been  trying  to  comfort  himself  with 
these  suppositions  ;  but  he  had  found  all  in  vain.  All  in 
vain,  because  Death,  in  approaching  him,  had  stalked  with 

4— <i°5) 


50  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


•-:•  r  A-  ---.  -a.-  ^  V-* 


his  black  shadow  before  him,  and  enveloped  the  victim. 
And  it  was  the  mournful  influence  of  the  unperceived 
shadow  that  caused  him  to  feel,  although  he  neither  saw 
nor  heard,  to  feel  the  presence  of  my  head  within  the  room. 

When  I  had  waited  a  long  time,  very  patiently,  without 
hearing  him  lie  down,  I  resolved  to  open  a  little  —  a  very, 
very  little  —  crevice  in  the  lantern.  So  I  opened  it  —  you 
cannot  imagine  how  stealthily,  stealthily  —  until  at  length 
a  single  dim  ray,  like  the  thread  of  the  spider,  shot  out 
from  the  crevice  and  fell  upon  the  vulture  eye. 

It  was  open,  wide,  wide  open,  and  I  grew  furious  as  I 
gazed  upon  it.  I  saw  with  perfect  distinctness  —  all  a  dull 
blue,  with  a  hideous  veil  over  it  that  chilled  the  very  mar- 
row in  my  bones  ;  but  I  could  see  nothing  else  of  the  old 
man's  face  or  person,  for  I  had  directed  the  ray  as  if  by 
instinct  precisely  upon  the  damned  spot. 


THE    TELL-TALE    HEART.  51 


And  now  have  I  not  told  you  that  what  makes  you  mis- 
take for  madness  is  but  over-acuteness  of  the  senses  ? 
Now,  I  say,  there  came  to  my  ears  a  low,  dull,  quick  sound, 
such  as  a  watch  makes  when  enveloped  in  cotton.  I  knew 
that  sound  well,  too.  It  was  the  beating  of  the  old  man's 
heart.  It  increased  my  fury,  as  the  beating  of  a  drum 
stimulates  the  soldier  into  courage. 

But  even  yet  I  refrained,  and  kept  still.  I  scarcely 
breathed.  I  held  the  lantern  motionless.  I  tried  how 
steadily  I  could  maintain  the  ray  upon  the  eye.  Meantime 
the  hellish  tattoo  of  the  heart  increased.  It  grew  quicker 
and  quicker,  and  louder  and  louder  every  instant.  The  old 
man's  terror  must  have  been  extreme  \  It  grew  louder,  I 
say,  louder  every  moment  I — do  you  mark  me  well  ?  I 
have  told  you  that  I  am  nervous  ;  so  I  am.  And  now,  at 
the  dread  hour  of  the  night,  amid  the  dreadful  silence  of 
that  old  house,  so  strange  a  noise  as  this  excited  me  to 
uncontrollable  terror.  Yet,  for  some  minutes  longer  I 


52  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

i-  ..V ..  e—  ...(^\ ..,  ...{*\ - *          .? /"^»   ^~x*  ...  ^-* 

±V.C.--.  *,  ^\  -M  -  ^-x-1- 
_i  !..:..^...^  .x.4.i  .^!  .^.^..H-^VS- 
,  ..j..  ^^^  YX  ^.:.  ^  v..lr.  -  >  ^ 

t  .^.  -r  ^  ^ 

crr^  .  s  v  '..'..:  ^  o«    4, 

.t.,  .^.C.    I    -4-^     •^-'•> 
^  )  ,.«     X..^w.  .  v  '.-*?.  ^?-     A 

i 


v      o       s~^      ^      \       ^      '      /<       1       *) 
«i^,       <5^'      I    x  ...      \>     /^      » 


L\.x/^» 
V 


SXX       I    X  O     ...     5 


refrained  and  stood  still.  But  the  beating  grew  louder, 
louder.  I  thought  the  heart  must  burst.  And  now  a  new 
anxiety  seized  me — the  sound  would  be  heard  by  a  neigh- 
bour !  The  old  man's  hour  had  come  !  With  a  loud  yell 
I  threw  open  the  lantern  and  leaped  into  the  room.  He 
shrieked  once — once  only.  In  an  instant  I  dragged  him  to 
the  floor,  and  pulled  the  heavy  bed  over  him.  I  then 
smiled  gaily,  to  find  the  deed  so  far  done.  But  for  many 
minutes  the  heart  beat  on  with  a  muffled  sound.  This, 
however,  did  not  vex  me  ;  it  would  not  be  heard  through 
the  wall.  At  length  it  ceased.  The  old  man  was  dead. 
I  removed  the  bed  and  examined  the  corpse.  Yes,  he  was 
stone,  stone  dead.  I  placed  my  hand  upon  the  heart  and 
held  it  there  many  minutes.  There  was  no  pulsation.  He 
was  stone  dead.  His  eye  would  trouble  me  no  more. 

If  still  you  think  me  mad,  you  will  think  me  so  no  longer 
when  I  describe  the  wise  precautions  I  took  for  the  con- 
cealment of  the  body.  The  night  waned,  and  I  worked 
hastily,  but  in  silence. 


THE    TELL-TALE   HEART.  53 


°^x   XX  x-\v   ) 


I  tf<ok  ii[)  tlirce  planks  from  the  flooring  of  the  chamber, 
and  deposited  all  between  the  scantlings.  I  then  replaced 
the  boards  so  cleverly,  so  cunningly,  that  no  human  eye 
not  even  /m— could  have  detected  anything  wrong.  There 
was  nothing  to  wash  out — no  stain  of  any  kind — no  blood- 
spot  whatever.  I  had  been  too  wary  for  that. 

When  I  had  made  an  end  of  these  labours  it  was  four 
o'clock — still  dark  as  midnight.  As  the  bell  sounded  the 
hour,  there  came  a  knocking  at  the  street  door.  I  went 
down  to  open  it  with  a  light  heart — for  what  had  I  now 
to  fear  ?  There  entered  three  men,  who  introduced  them- 
selves, with  perfect  suavity,  as  officers  of  the  police.  A 
shriek  had  been  heart!  by  a  neighbour  during  the  night  ; 
suspicion  of  foul  play  had  been  aroused  ;  information  had 
been  lodged  at  the  police-court,  and  they  (the  officers)  had 
been  deputed  to  search  the  premises. 


54 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


I  smiled, — for  zt7/a/  had  I  to  fear  ?  I  bade  the  gentlemen 
welcome.  The  shriek,  I  said,  was  my  own  in  a  dream. 
The  old  man,  I  mentioned,  was  absent  in  the  country.  I 
took  my  visitors  all  over  the  house.  I  bade  them  search 
— search  well.  I  led  them,  at  length,  to  his  chamber,  I 
showed  them  his  treasures,  secure,  undisturbed.  In  the 
enthusiasm  of  my  confidence,  I  brought  chairs  into  the 
room,  and  desired  them  here  to  rest  from  their  fatigues, 
while  I  myself,  in  the  wild  audacity  of  my  perfect  triumph, 
placed  my  own  seat  upon  the  very  spot  beneath  which 
reposed  the  corpse  of  the  victim. 

The  officials  were  satisfied.  My  manner  had  convinced 
them.  I  was  singularly  at  ease.  They  sat,  and  while  I 
answered  cheerily,  they  chatted  of  familiar  things.  But 
ere  long,  I  felt  myself  getting  pale  and  wished  them  gone 
My  head  ached,  and  I  fancied  a  ringing  in  my  ears  ;  but 
still  they  sat,  and  still  chatted.  The  ringing  became  more 


THE    TELL-TALE   HEART.  55 


,_  0  '  o  •  i 

v  ~\'  -     \-   v    H      ^    '    /          *  \*s* 

•••     •   -     ^  -Gr»    '    —  '    


distinct ; — it  continued  and  became  more  distinct.  I 
talked  more  freely  to  get  rid  of  the  feeling  ;  but  it  con- 
tinued and  gained  definiteness — until,  at  length,  I  found 
that  the  noise  was  not  within  my  ears. 

No  doubt  I  now  grew  very  pale  ; — but  I  talked  more 
fluently,  and  with  a  heightened  voice.  Yet  the  sound  in- 
creased— and  what  could  I  do  ?  It  wets  a  loiv,  dull,  quick 
sound — much  such  a  sound  as  a  watch  makes  when  enveloped 
in  cotton.  I  gasped  for  breath — and  yet  the  officials  heard 
it  not.  I  talked  more  quickly — more  vehemently  ;  but 
the  noise  steadily  increased.  I  arose  and  argued  about 
trifles,  in  a  high  key,  and  with  violent  gesticulations  ;  but 
the  noise  steadily  increased.  Why  would  they  not  be- 
gone ?  I  paced  the  floor  to  and  fro  with  heavy  strides, 
as  if  excited  to  fury  by  the  observations  of  the  men — but 
the  noise  steadily  increased.  O  God  !  What  could  I  do  ? 
I  foamed — I  raved — I  swore  !  I  swung  the  chair  upon 
which  I  had  been  sitting,  and  grated  it  upon  the  boards  ; 


56  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


GREATNESS  IN  COMMON   LIFE. 

BY  W.  E.  CHANNING. 


but  the  noise  arose  over  all  and  continually  increased.  It 
grew  louder — louder — louder  !  And  still  the  men  chatted 
pleasantly,  and  smiled.  Was  it  possible  they  heard  not  ? 
Almighty  God  ! — no,  no  !  They  heard — they  suspected 
— they  knew  ! — they  were  making  a  mockery  of  my  horror  ! 
—this  I  thought,  and  this  I  think.  But  anything  was 
better  than  this  agony  !  Anything  was  more  tolerable 
than  this  derision.  I  could  bear  those  hypocritical  smiles 
no  longer  !  I  felt  that  I  must  scream  or  die  ! — And  now 
— again  ! — hark  !  louder  !  louder  !  louder  !  louder  ' 

"  Villains  !  "  I  shrieked,  "  dissemble  no  more  !  I  admit 
the  deed  ! — tear  up  the  planks  ! — here,  here  ! — it  is  the 
beating  of  his  hideous  heart !  " 


My  strong  interest  in  the  mass  of  the  people  is  founded, 
not  on  their  usefulness  to  the  community,  so  much  as  on 
what  they  are  in  themselves.  Their  condition  is  indeed 
obscure  ;  but  their  importance  is  not  on  this  account  a 


GREATNESS    IN    COMMON    LIFE. 


\vliit  the  less.  The  multitude  of  men  cannot,  from  the 
nature  of  the  case,  be  distinguished  ;  for  the  very  idea  of 
distinction  is — that  a  man  stands  out  from  the  multitude. 
They  make  little  noise  and  draw  little  notice  in  their  nar- 
row spheres  of  action  ;  but  still  they  have  their  full  pro- 
portion of  personal  worth  and  even  of  greatness.  Indeed, 
every  man  in  every  condition  is  great.  It  is  only  our  own 
diseased  sight  which  makes  him  little.  A  man  is  great  as 
a  man,  be  he  where  or  what  he  may.  The  grandeur  of  his 
nature  turns  to  insignificance  all  outward  distinctions. 
His  powers  of  intellect,  of  conscience,  of  love,  of  knowing 
God,  of  perceiving  the  beautiful,  of  acting  on  his  own  mind, 
on  outward  nature,  and  on  his  fellow-creatures, — these  are 
glorious  prerogatives.  Through  the  vulgar  error  of  under- 
valuing what  is  common,  we  are  apt  indeed  to  pass  these 
by  as  of  little  worth.  But,  as  in  the  outward  creation,  so 
in  the  soul,  the  common  is  the  most  precious.  Science  and 
art  may  invent  splendid  modes  of  illuminating  the  apart- 
ments of  the  opulent  ;  but  these  are  all  poor  and  worthless 


58  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


compared  with  the  common  light  which  the  sun  sends  into 
all  our  windows,  which  he  pours  freely,  impartially  over 
hill  and  valley,  which  kindles  daily  the  eastern  and  western 
sky ;  and  so  the  common  lights  of  reason,  and  conscience, 
and  love,  are  of  more  worth  and  dignity  than  the  fare 
endowments  which  give  celebrity  to  a  few.  Let  us  not 
disparage  that  nature  which  is  common  to  all  men  ;  for  no 
thought  can  measure  its  grandeur.  It  is  the  image  of  God, 
the  image  even  of  His  infinity,  for  no  limits  can  be  set  to 
its  unfolding.  He  who  possesses  the  divine  powers  of  the 
soul  is  a  great  being,  be  his  place  what  it  may.  You  may 
clothe  him  with  rags,  may  immure  him  in  a  dungeon,  may 
chain  him  to  slavish  tasks.  But  he  is  still  great.  You 
may  shut  him  out  of  your  houses  ;  but  God  opens  to  him 
heavenly  mansions.  He  makes  no  show  indeed  in  the 
streets  of  a  splendid  city  ;  but  a  clear  thought,  a  pure 
affection,  a  resolute  act  of  a  virtuous  will,  have  a  dignity 
quite  of  another  kind,  and  far  higher  than  accumulations 


GREATNESS    IN    COMMON    LIFE.  59 


of  brick  and  granite  and  plaster  and  stucco,  however  cun- 
ningly put  together,  or  though  stretching  far  beyond  our 
sight. 

Nor  is  this  all.  If  we  pass  over  this  grandeur  of  our 
common  nature,  and  turn  our  thoughts  to  that  compara- 
tive greatness,  which  draws  chief  attention,  and  which 
consists  in  the  decided  superiority  of  the  individual  to  the 
general  standard  of  power  and  character,  we  shall  find 
this  as  free  and  frequent  a  growth  among  the  obscure  and 
unnoticed  as  in  more  conspicuous  walks  of  life.  The  truly 
great  are  to  be  found  everywhere,  nor  is  it  easy  to  say  in 
what  condition  they  spring  up  most  plentifully.  Real 
greatness  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  man's  sphere.  It  does 
not  lie  in  the  magnitude  of  his  outward  agency,  in  the 
extent  of  the  effects  which  he  produces.  The  greatest  men 
may  do  comparatively  little  abroad.  Perhaps  the  greatest 
in  our  city  at  this  moment  are  buried  in  obscurity.  Gran- 
deur of  character  lies  wholly  in  force  of  soul,  that  is,  in  the 
force  of  thought,  moral  principle,  and  love,  and  this  may 


60  SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 

<\      '   /^V     L  ^    '"Xi    ^V 

\   ,    ...     I    V,     <o      .-^     ....  NS>| >.  x 

\       x 

\ 

\  r\s  f-     h  ^  x  r 

-_    r     *  • ^    ^ 

"'•' ""'""' >,c    '*^X]I  - 

~  .:.  v_— s  >?.  /v 

:,.:.  )  i  ^:....v/ 

/i 

•  VH^- 

lcf-/  V^  .    <A,  VI    9,   6 

be  found  in  the  humblest  condition  of  life.  A  man  brought 
up  to  an  obscure  trade,  and  hemmed  in  by  the  wants  of  a 
growing  family,  may,  in  his  narrow  sphere,  perceive  more 
clearly,  discriminate  more  keenly,  weigh  evidence  more 
wisely,  seize  on  the  right  means  more  decisively,  and  have 
more  presence  of  mind  in  difficulty,  than  another  who  has 
accumulated  vast  stores  of  knowledge  by  laborious  study  ; 
and  he  has  more  of  intellectual  greatness.  Many  a  man 
who  has  gone  but  a  few  miles  from  home,  understands 
human  nature  better,  detects  motives,  and  weighs  char- 
acter more  sagaciously,  than  another  who  has  travelled 
over  the  known  world,  and  made  a  name  b}'  his  reports  of 
different  countries.  It  is  force  of  thought  which  measures 
intellectual,  and  so  it  is  force  of  principle  which  measures 
moral  greatness,  that  highest  of  human  endowments,  that 
brightest  manifestation  of  the  Divinity.  The  greatest  man 
is  he  who  chooses  the  right  with  invincible  resolution,  who 
resists  the  sorest  temptations  from  within  and  without, 


GREATNESS    IN    COMMON    LIFE. 


61 


who  bears  the  heaviest  burden  cheerfully,  who  is  calmest 
in  storms,  and  most  fearless  under  menace  and  frowns, 
whose  reliance  on  truth,  on  virtue,  on  God,  is  most  unfalter- 
ing ;  and  is  this  a  greatness  which  is  apt  to  make  a  show, 
or  which  is  likely  to  abound  in  conspicuous  station  1  The 
solemn  conflicts  of  reason  with  passion  ;  the  victories  of 
moral  and  religious  principle  over  urgent  and  almost  irre- 
sistible solicitations  to  self-indulgence  ;  the  hardest  sacri- 
fices of  duty,  those  of  deep-seated  affection  and  of  the 
heart's  fondest  hopes  ;  the  consolations,  hopes,  joy  and 
peace  of  disappointed,  persecuted,  scorned,  deserted  vir- 
tue ; — these  are  of  course  unseen  ;  so  that  the  true  great- 
ness of  human  life  is  almost  wholly  out  of  sight.  Perhaps 
in  our  presence  the  most  heroic  deed  on  earth  is  done  in 
some  silent  spirit,  the  loftiest  purpose  cherished,  the  most 
generous  sacrifice  made,  and  we  do  not  suspect  it.  I  be- 
lieve this  greatness  to  be  most  common  among  the  multi- 
tude, whose  names  are  never  heard.  Among  common 
people  will  be  found  more  of  hardship  borne  manfully, 
more  of  unvarnished  truth,  more  of  religious  trust,  more 


62  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


.V...,    .'     ^-S>,  A...    e-     ~f',       '-, 


of  that  generosity  which  gives  what  the  giver  needs  himself, 
and  more  of  a  wise  estimate  of  life  and  death,  than  among 
the  more  prosperous. 

And  evren  in  regard  to  influence  over  other  beings  which 
is  thought  the  peculiar  prerogative  of  distinguished  station, 
I  believe  that  the  difference  between  the  conspicuous  and 
the  obscure  does  not  amount  to  much.  Influence  is  to  be 
measured,  not  by  the  extent  of  surface  it  covers,  but  by  its 
kind.  A  man  may  spread  his  mind,  his  feelings,  and 
opinions,  through  a  great  extent ;  but,  if  his  mind  be  a 
low  one,  he  manifests  no  greatness.  A  wretched  artist 
may  fill  a  city  with  daubs,  and  by  a  false  showy  style 
achieve  a  reputation  ;  but  the  man  of  genius,  who  leaves 
behind  him  one  grand  picture  in  which  immortal  beauty 
is  embodied,  and  which  is  silently  to  spread  a  true  taste 
in  his  art,  exerts  an  incomparably  higher  influence.  Now 
the  noblest  influence  on  earth  is  that  exerted  on  character ; 
and  he  who  puts  forth  this  does  a  great  work,  no  matter 


GREATNESS    IN    COMMON    LIFE. 


63 


how  narrow  or  obscure  his  sphere.  The  father  and  mother 
of  an  unnoticed  family,  who,  in  their  seclusion,  awaken 
the  mind  of  one  child  to  the  idea  and  love  of  perfect  good- 
ness, who  awaken  in  him  a  strength  of  will  to  repel  all 
temptation,  and  who  send  him  out  prepared  to  profit  by 
the  conflicts  of  life,  surpass  in  influence  a  Napoleon  break- 
ing the  world  to  his  sway.  And  not  only  is  their  work 
higher  in  kind  ;  who  knows  but  that  they  are  doing  a 
greater  work  even  as  to  extent  of  surface  than  the  con- 
queror ?  Who  knows  but  that  the  being  whom  they 
inspire  with  holy  and  disinterested  principles  may  com- 
municate himself  to  others  ;  and  that,  by  a  spreading 
agency  of  which  they  were  the  silent  origin,  improvements 
may  spread  through  a  nation,  through  the  world  ?  Tn 
these  remarks  you  will  see  why  I  feel  and  express  a  deep 
interest  in  the  obscure  in  the  mass  of  men.  The  distinc- 
tions of  society  vanish  before  the  light  of  these  truths.  I 
attach  myself  to  the  multitude,  not  because  they  are  voters 
and  have  political  power  ;  but  because  they  are  men,  and 
have  within  their  reach  the  most  glorious  prizes  of  humanity. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  DRUM, 


"  About  four  years  ago,"  began  the  Doctor,  "  I  attended 
a  course  of  lectures  in  a  certain  city.  One  of  the  professors 
invited  me  to  his  house  on  Christmas  night.  I  was  very 
glad  to  go,  as  I  was  anxious  to  see  one  of  his  sons,  who, 
though  only  twelve  years  old,  was  said  to  be  very  clever. 
There  was  a  pleasant  party  that  night.  All  the  children 
of  the  neighbourhood  were  there,  and  among  them  the 
Professor's  clever  son,  Rupert,  as  they  called  him, — a  thin 
little  chap,  tall  for  his  age,  fair  and  delicate.  His  health 
was  feeble,  his  father  said  ;  he  seldom  ran  about  and 
played  with  other  boys,  preferring  to  stay  at  home  and 
brood  over  his  books,  and  compose  what  he  called  his 
verses. 

"  Well,  we  had  a  Christmas-tree,  and  we  had  been  laugh- 
ing and  talking,  calling  off  the  names  of  the  children  who 
had  presents  on  the  tree,  and  everybody  was  very  happy 

64 


THE    STORY    OF    A    DRUM.  65 


and  joyous,  when  one  of  the  children  suddenly  said, '  Here's 
something  for  Rupert  ;  and  what  do  you  think  it  is  ?  ' 

"  We  all  guessed  : — '  A  desk  ;  '  '  A  copy  of  Milton  ;  ' 
'  A  gold  pen ;  '  'A  rhyming  dictionary. '  '  No  ?  what  then  ?  ' 

'  '  A  drum  !  ' 

"  Sure  enough  there  it  was.  A  good-sized,  bright,  new, 
brass-bound  drum,  with  a  slip  of  paper  on  it,  with  the 
inscription,  '  FOR  RUPERT.' 

"  Of  course  we  all  laughed,  and  thought  it  a  good  joke. 
'  You  see  you're  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  Rupert !  ' 
said  one.  '  Here's  parchment  for  the  poet,'  said  another. 
'  Rupert's  last  work  in  sheepskin  covers,'  said  a  third. 
'  Give  us  a  classical  tune,  Rupert,'  said  a  fourth  ;  and  so 
on.  But  Rupert  seemed  too  mortified  to  speak  ;  he 
changed  colour,  bit  his  lips,  and  finally  burst  into  a  pas- 
sionate fit  of  crying,  and  left  the  room.  Then  those  who 
had  joked  him  felt  ashamed,  and  everybody  began  to  ask 
5— (105) 


66  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


who  had  put  the  drum  there.  But  no  one  knew.  Rupert 
did  not  come  downstairs  again  that  night,  and  the  party 
soon  after  broke  up. 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten  those  things,  for  the  war  of  the 
Rebellion  broke  out  the  next  spring,  and  I  was  appointed 
surgeon  in  one  of  the  new  regiments,  and  was  on  my  way 
to  the  seat  of  war.  But  I  had  to  pass  through  the  city 
where  the  Professor  lived,  and  there  I  met  him.  My  first 
question  was  about  Rupert.  The  Professor  shook  his  head 
sadly.  '  He's  not  so  well,'  he  said  ;  '  he  has  been  declining 
since  last  Christmas,  when  you  saw  him.  A  very  strange 
case,  but  go  and  see  him  yourself  ;  it  may  distract  his 
mind  and  do  him  good.' 

"  I  went  accordingly  to  the  Professor's  house,  and  found 
Rupert  lying  on  a  sofa,  propped  up  with  pillows.  Around 
him  were  scattered  his  books,  and,  what  seemed  in  singular 
contrast,  that  drum  was  hanging  on  a  nail,  just  above  his 
head.  His  face  was  thin  and  wasted  ;  there  was  a  red 


THE   STORY   OF   A   DRUM.  67 


spot  on  either  cheek,  and  his  eyes  were  very  bright  and 
widely  opened.  He  was  glad  to  see  me,  and  when  I  told 
him  where  I  was  going,  he  asked  a  thousand  questions 
about  the  war.  I  thought  I  had  thoroughly  diverted  his 
mind  from  its  sick  and  languid  fancies,  when  he  suddenly 
grasped  my  hand  and  drew  me  towards  him. 

'  Doctor,'  said  he,  in  a  low  whisper,  '  you  won't  laugh 
at  me  if  I  tell  you  something  ?  ' 

'  No,  certainly  not,'  I  said. 

'  You  remember  that  drum  ?  '  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
glittering  toy  that  hung  against  the  wall.  '  You  know, 
too,  how  it  came  to  me.  A  few  weeks  after  Christmas,  I 
was  lying  half  asleep  here,  and  the  drum  was  hanging  on 
the  wall,  when  suddenly  I  heard  it  beaten  ;  at  first,  low 
and  slowly,  then  faster  and  louder,  until  its  rolling  filled 
the  house.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  heard  it  again. 
I  did  not  dare  to  tell  anybody  about  it,  but  I  have  heard 
it  every  night  ever  since.  Sometimes  it  is  played  softly, 


68  SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


sometimes  loudl}',  but  always  quickening  to  a  long  roll, 
so  loud  and  alarming  that  I  have  looked  to  see  people 
coming  into  my  room  to  ask  what  was  the  matter.  But 
I  think,  Doctor,  that  no  one  hears  it  but  myself.' 

"  I  thought  so,  too,  but  I  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  it 
at  any  other  times. 

"  '  Once  or  twice  in  the  daytime,'  he  replied,  '  when  I 
have  been  reading  or  writing  ;  then  very  loudly,  as  though 
it  were  angry,  and  tried  in  that  way  to  attract  my  attention 
from  my  books. 

"  I  looked  into  his  face,  and  placed  my  hand  upon  his 
pulse.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  his  pulse  a  little 
flurried  and  quick.  I  then  tried  to  explain  to  him  that 
he  was  very  weak,  and  that  his  senses  were  very  acute,  as 
most  weak  people's  are  ;  and  how  that  when  he  read,  or 
grew  interested  and  excited,  or  when  he  was  tired  at  night, 
the  throbbing  of  a  big  artery  made  the  beating  sound  he 


THE    STORY   OF    A    DRUM. 


69 


> 


^-1 


.  .T...^.  . .  -,  \-     >  r» 

_Q«         1          .» 

V^v '  s./^-^-V 

°\     •     0  \     \/     ^/   ^_      •  /»<_    I  l 

J  ..  ..  /l^—*...  <r^  ...*— '?*;.,   ^-^  i •    N — ,  x 

—  '  \  ^°  f  <r-b  /> 
).../--N  0  x  i  ....  V  x  i  t  i/ 

\\C-A.\^L.  He  listened  to  me  with  a  sad  smile  of  unbelief, 
but  thanked  me,  and  in  a  little  while  I  went  away. 

"  I  left  the  city  that  very  day,  and  in  the  excitement  of 
battlefields  and  hospitals,  I  forgot  all  about  little  Rupert. 

"  Not  long  after  we  had  a  terrible  battle,  in  which  a 
portion  of  our  army  was  surprised  and  driven  back  with 
great  slaughter.  Entering  the  barn  that  served  for  a 
temporary  hospital,  I  went  at  once  to  work. 

"  I  turned  to  a  tall,  stout  Vermonter,  who  was  badly 
wounded  in  both  thighs,  but  he  held  up  his  hands  and 
begged  me  to  help  others  first  who  needed  it  more  than  he. 
I  did  not  at  first  heed  his  request,  for  this  kind  of  unsel- 
fishness was  very  common  in  the  army  ;  but  he  went  on — 
'  For  God's  sake,  Doctor,  leave  me  here ;  there  is  a 
drummer-boy  of  our  regiment — a  mere  child — dying,  if  he 
isn't  dead  now.  Go  and  see  him  first.  He  lies  over  there. 
He  saved  more  than  one  life.  He  was  at  his  post  in  the 


70  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


I  i 

^-a    ?. 

'  %    -a  .'.  "V-^,  !r 

<  U  <  ^ 

<\      <r- 

/*« 

\_         *  ^' 

^^  v  sr  v»,  x 

•    -y 

i_       ^ 

\     . 

-^—  s  x             \       ti,       o      /'~^ 

1   H-  '  ^-/ 

.^...< 

)-\ 

.  J  s  ^-' 

"Xx 

/^^   .d* 

...x«S.. 

«^-^ 

rxX      .   i  ..A  n_   !T" 

.        —    X 

L- 


panic  this  morning,  and  saved  the  honour  of  the  regiment  ' 
I  was  so  much  impressed  by  the  man's  manner  that  I 
passed  over  to  where  the  drummer  lay  with  his  drum 
beside  him.  I  gave  one  glance  at  his  face — and — yes,  it 
was  Rupert. 

"  Well !  well  !  it  needed  not  the  chalked  cross  which  my 
brother  surgeons  had  left  upon  the  rough  board  whereon 
he  lay  to  show  how  urgent  was  the  relief  he  sought  ;  it 
needed  not  the  prophetic  words  of  the  Vermonter,  nor  the 
damp  that  mingled  with  the  brown  curls  that  clung  to  his 
pale  forehead,  to  show  how  hopeless  it  was  now.  I  called 
him  by  name.  He  opened  his  eyes — larger,  I  thought,  in 
the  new  vision  that  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  him — 
and  recognized  me.  He  whispered,  '  I'm  glad  you  are 
come,  but  I  don't  think  you  can  do  me  any  good.' 

"  I  could  not  tell  him  a  lie.  I  could  not  say  anything 
I  only  pressed  his  hand  in  mine,  as  he  went  on. 


THE   STORY   OF   A    DRUM.  71 

\  '     ")  *~N 

- 


i  :. 


3  L 

...    la  x 

I     \ 

t    \j 


0  ^-V  •* 

^-N       V.     ....  ,     ... 

i  /VTX      r  \ 

J  d     x          I        \ 


P 
I, 


-v.-.g.j  i  s  v_^x  v  %  ,-pi  .>..(X/^i.. ^  "^  ^T 

-i^/  b,  vy-,  *.j.  „  .^... IP  .  i->  o  rr>^..c^> 

".  ..x/....|-o  -^  N   c/l    ^",  -^  «,  ^V  I 

".<.^.,'  .  ex,..1.,   *JL  xV^x     V./^...! 
\  "r 


'  But  you  will  see  father,  and  ask  him  to  forgive  me. 
Nobody  is  to  blame  but  myself.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
I  understood  why  the  drum  came  to  me  on  Christmas  night, 
and  why  it  kept  calling  to  me  every  night,  and  what  it 
said.  I  know  it  now.  The  work  is  done,  and  I  am  con- 
tent. Tell  father  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  should  have  lived 
only  to  worry  and  perplex  him,  and  something  in  me  tells 
me  this  is  right.' 

"  He  lay  still  for  a  moment,  and  then,  grasping  my  hand, 
said, 

"  '  Hark  !  ' 

"  I  listened,  but  heard  nothing  but  the  suppressed 
moans  of  the  wounded  men  around  me.  '  The  drum,'  he 
said,  faintly  ;  '  don't  you  hear  it  ?  The  drum  is  calling 
me.' 

"  He  reached  out  his  arm  to  where  it  lay,  as  though  he 
would  embrace  it. 

"  '  Listen,'  he  went  on,  '  it's  the  reveille.  There  are  the 
ranks  drawn  up  in  review.  Don't  you  see  the  sunlight 


72  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE. 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHOKNE. 


flash  down  the  long  line  of  bayonets  ?  Their  faces  are 
shining — they  present  arms — there  comes  the  General  ; 
but  his  face  I  cannot  look  at,  for  the  glory  round  his  head. 
He  sees  me  ;  he  smiles,  it  is —  And  with  a  name  upon 
his  lips  that  he  learned  long  ago,  he  stretched  himself 
wearily  upon  the  planks,  and  lay  quite  still." 


Life  figures  itself  to  me  as  a  festal  or  funereal  procession. 
All  of  us  have  our  places,  and  are  to  move  onward  under 
the  direction  of  the  Chief  Marshal.  The  grand  difficulty 
results  from  the  invariably  mistaken  principles  on  which 
the  deputy  marshals  seek  to  arrange  this  immense  con- 
course of  people,  so  much  more  numerous  than  those  that 
train  their  interminable  length  through  streets  and  high- 
ways in  times  of  political  excitement.  Their  scheme  is 
ancient,  far  beyond  the  memory  of  man,  or  even  the  record 
of  history,  and  has  hitherto  been  very  little  modified  by  the 
innate  sense  of  something  wrong,  and  the  dim  perception 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE.  73 


^-Sl  V 

1 — D      b      .'.x  b         V> 

•4-  -  -  V3  .p  4-V--   ^ -V 

--^  c/   i^.    ^!.V>  %  •^..^L.CI 
?  "N  — I  z^T  ^  ^/v.,  ^  V 


of  better  metliods,  that  have  disquieted  all  the  ages 
through  which  the  procession  has  taken  its  march.  Its 
members  are  classified  by  the  merest  external  circum- 
stances, and  thus  are  more  certain  to  be  thrown  out  of  their 
true  positions  than  if  no  principle  of  arrangement  were 
attempted.  In  one  part  of  the  procession  we  see  men  of 
landed  estate  or  moneyed  capital  gravely  keeping  each 
other  company,  for  the  preposterous  reason  that  they 
chance  to  have  a  similar  standing  in  the  tax-gatherer's 
book.  Trades  and  professions  march  together  with 
scarcely  a  more  real  bond  of  union.  In  this  manner,  it 
cannot  be  denied,  people  are  disentangled  from  the  mass 
and  separated  into  various  classes  according  to  certain 
apparent  relations  ;  all  have  some  artificial  badge  which 
the  world,  and  themselves  among  the  first,  learn  to  con- 
sider as  a  genuine  characteristic.  Fixing  our  attention  on 
such  outside  shows  of  similarity  or  difference,  we  lose  sight 
of  those  realities  by  which  nature,  fortune,  fate,  or  Provi- 
dence has  constituted  for  every  man  a  brotherhood, 


74  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


wherein  it  is  one  great  office  of  human  wisdom  to  classify 
him.  When  the  mind  has  once  accustomed  itself  to  a 
proper  arrangement  of  the  Procession  of  Life,  or  a  true 
classification  of  society,  even  though  merely  speculative, 
there  is  thenceforth  a  satisfaction  which  pretty  well  suffices 
for  itself  without  the  aid  of  any  actual  reformation  in  the 
order  of  march. 

For  instance,  assuming  to  myself  the  power  of  marsha'ling 
the  aforesaid  procession,  I  direct  a  trumpeter  to  send  forth 
a  blast  loud  enough  to  be  heard  from  hence  to  China  ; 
and  a  herald,  with  world-pervading  voice,  to  make  pro- 
clamation for  a  certain  class  of  mortals  to  take  their  places. 
What  shall  be  their  principle  of  union  ?  After  all,  an 
external  one,  in  comparison  with  many  that  might  be 
fcund,  yet  far  more  real  than  those  which  the  world  has 
selected  for  a  similar  purpose.  Let  all  who  are  afflicted 
with  like  physical  diseases  form  themselves  into  ranks. 

Our  first  attempt  at  classification  is  not  very  successful. 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 


It  may  gratify  the  pride  of  aristocracy  to  reflect  that 
disease,  more  than  any  other  circumstance  of  human  life, 
pays  due  observance  to  the  distinctions  which  rank  and 
wealth,  and  poverty  and  lowliness,  have  established  among 
mankind.  Some  maladies  are  rich  and  precious,  and  only 
to  be  acquired  by  the  right  of  inheritance  or  purchased 
with  gold.  Of  this  kind  is  the  gout,  which  serves  as  a 
bond  of  brotherhood  to  the  purple-visaged  gentry  who 
obey  the  herald's  voice,  and  painfully  hobble  from  all 
civilized  regions  of  the  globe  to  take  their  post  in  the  grand 
procession.  In  mercy  to  their  toes,  let  us  hope  that  the 
nvuvh  may  not  be  long.  The  dyspeptics,  too,  are  people 
of  good  standing  in  the  world.  For  them  the  earliest  sal- 
mon is  caught  in  our  eastern  rivers,  and  the  shy  woodcock 
stains  the  dry  leaves  with  his  blood  in  his  remotest  haunts, 
and  the  turtle  comes  from  the  far  Pacific  Islands  to  be 
gobbled  up  in  soup.  They  can  afford  to  flavour  all  their 
dishes  with  indolence,  which,  in  spite  of  the  general 
opinion,  is  a  sauce  more  exquisitely  piquant  than  appetite 
won  by  c-xcrcisc.  Apoplexy  is  another  highly  respectable 


76  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


^  -k"   V   ) 


disease.  We  will  rank  together  all  who  have  the  symptom 
of  dizziness  in  the  brain,  and  as  fast  as  any  drop  by  the 
way  supply  their  places  with  new  members  of  the  board 
of  aldermen. 

On  the  other  hand,  here  come  whole  tribes  of  people, 
whose  physical  lives  are  but  a  deteriorated  variety  of  life, 
and  themselves  a  meaner  species  of  mankind  ;  so  sad  an 
effect  has  been  wrought  by  the  tainted  breath  of  cities, 
scanty  and  unwholesome  food,  destructive  modes  of  labour, 
and  the  lack  of  those  moral  supports  that  might  partially 
have  counteracted  such  bad  influences.  Behold  here  a 
train  of  house  painters,  all  afflicted  with  a  peculiar  sort  of 
colic.  Next  in  place  we  will  marshal  those  workmen  in 
cutlery,  who  have  breathed  a  fatal  disorder  into  their  lungs 
with  the  impalpable  dust  of  steel.  Tailors  and  shoe- 
makers, being  sedentary  men,  will  chiefly  congregate  into 
one  part  of  the  procession,  and  march  under  similar  ban- 
ners of  disease  ;  but  among  them  we  may  observe  here  and 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 


77 


n  v^./^-.-...^--.^;  iJTI^f*,  C  .....  t  •-. 
>;  '..Z.v..^;.^i.^,s,,-  /  V^ 
/.!  v.v:  :i  ,,  ..^..  _,^ 

Tx     ,  *  C  ^|..l  VI,  r^^5,  /  L    .^J 

V,        -7       1       .^   ^  °»  ^.  .*-N     -        V 

~> 


p  O  , — *. 

/        T^4"     " ~c 

.C^,  '..  U.. .)...•!  .St?.. .°.  ^  ^  I 


there  a  sickly  student,  who  has  left  his  health  between  the 
leaves  of  classic  volumes  ;  and  clerks,  likewise,  who  have 
caught  their  deaths  on  high  official  stools  ;  and  men  of 
genius  too,  who  have  written  sheet  after  sheet  with  pens 
dipped  in  their  heart's  blood.  These  are  a  wretched,  quak- 
ing, short-breathed  set.  But  what  is  this  cloud  of  pale- 
cheeked,  slender  girls,  who  disturb  the  ear  with  the  multi- 
plicity of  their  short,  dry  coughs  ?  They  are  seamstresses, 
who  have  plied  the  daily  and  nightly  needle  in  the  service 
of  master  tailors  and  close-fisted  contractors,  until  now  it 
is  almost  time  for  each  to  hem  the  borders  of  her  own 
sliroud.  Consumption  points  their  place  in  the  procession. 
With  their  sad  sisterhood  are  intermingled  many  youthful 
maidens  who  have  sickened  in  aristocratic  mansions,  and 
for  whose  aid  science  has  unavailingly  searched  its  volumes, 
and  whom  breathless  love  has  watched.  In  our  ranks  the 
rich  maiden  and  the  poor  seamstress  may  walk  arm  in  arm 
We  might  find  innumerable  other  instances,  where  the 
bond  of  mutual  disease^ — not  to  speak  of  nation-sweeping 


78  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


\  I     "X    s 

,       V_     o      S^..      \ 


vx  ^  ^  .<  y..^._.  r  \^r  z* s. 


pestilence  —  embraces  high  and  low,  and  makes  the  king 
brother  of  the  clown.  But  it  is  not  hard  to  own  that 
disease  is  the  natural  aristocrat.  Let  him  kee.p  his  state, 
and  have  his  established  orders  of  rank,  and  wear  his  royal 
mantle  of  the  colour  of  a  fever  flush  ;  and  let  the  noble  and 
wealthy  boast  their  own  physical  infirmities,  and  display 
their  symptoms  as  the  badges  of  high  station.  All  things 
considered,  these  are  as  proper  subjects  of  human  pride  as 
any  relations  of  human  rank  that  men  can  fix  upon. 

Sound  again,  thou  deep-breathed  trumpeter  !  and  herald 
with  thy  voice  of  might,  shout  forth  another  summons  that 
'shall  reach  the  old  baronial  castles  of  Europe,  and  the 
rudest  cabin  of  our  western  wilderness  !  What  class  is 
next  to  take  its  place  in  the  procession  of  mortal  life  ?  Let 
it  be  those  whom  the  gifts  of  intellect  have  united  in  a 
noble  brotherhood. 

Ay,  this  is  a  reality,  before  which  the  conventional  dis- 
tinctions of  society  melt  away  like  a  vapour  when  we  would 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 


79 


/V: 


-4~*  i 


v_>     '      £""7     - T - '      J      


grasp  it  with  the  hand.  Were  Byron  now  alive,  and  Burns, 
the  iirst  would  come  from  his  ancestral  abbey,  flinging 
aside,  although  unwillingly,  the  inherited  honours  of  a 
thousand  years,  to  take  the  arm  of  the  mighty  peasant 
who  grew  immortal  while  he  stooped  behind  his  plough. 
These  are  gone  ;  but  the  hall,  the  farmer's  fireside,  the  hut, 
perhaps  the  palace,  the  counting  room,  the  workship,  the 
village,  the  city,  life's  high  places  and  low  ones,  may  all 
produce  their  poets,  whom  a  common  temperament  per- 
vades like  an  electric  sympathy.  Peer  or  ploughman,  we 
will  muster  them  pair  by  pair  and  shoulder  to  shoulder.  .  .  . 
Yet  the  longer  I  reflect  the  less  am  I  satisfied  with  the 
idea  of  forming  a  separate  class  of  mankind  on  the  basis  of 
high  intellectual  power.  At  best  it  is  but  a  higher  develop- 
ment of  innate  gifts  common  to  all.  Perhaps,  moreover, 
he  whose  genius  appears  deepest  and  truest  excels  his 


80  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


V  _-       .  X 


fellows  in  nothing  save  the  knack  of  expression  ;  he  throws 
out  occasionally  a  lucky  hint  at  truths  of  which  every  soul 
is  profoundly,  though  unutterably  conscious.  Therefore, 
though  we  suffer  the  brotherhood  of  intellect  to  march  on- 
ward together,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  their  peculiar 
relation  will  not  begin  to  vanish  as  soon  as  the  procession 
shall  have  passed  beyond  the  circle  of  this  present  world. 
But  we  do  not  classify  for  eternity. 

And  next,  let  the  trumpet  pour  forth  a  funereal  wail,  and 
the  herald's  voice  give  breath  in  one  vast  cry  to  all  the 
groans  and  grievous  utterances  that  are  audible  throughout 
the  earth.  We  appeal  now  to  the  sacred  bond  of  sorrow, 
and  summon  the  great  multitude  who  labour  under  similar 
afflictions  to  take  their  places  in  the  march. 

How  many  a  heart  that  would  have  been  insensible  to 
any  other  call  has  responded  to  the  doleful  accents  of  that 
voice  !  It  has  gone  far  and  wide,  and  high  and  low,  and 
left  scarcely  a  mortal  roof  unvisited.  Indeed,  the  principle 
is  only  too  universal  for  our  purpose,  and  unless  we  limit 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 


81 


v\,,.r.  Y 


),  \  ib 

v 

9  \    *  ~  "~i  / 

-  v  n 

V       J         '-      V^A      ^      ^   X 

'^  ^^Jkw-iu, 

'  *  s  ^  .V  .M>.....^>  o  ..^.  x  .<. -V-V 

^^i . 

A    ^    A 
c/\<~- 

it  will  quite  break  up  our  classification  of  mankind,  and 
convert  the  whole  procession  into  a  funeral  train.  We  will, 
therefore,  be  at  some  pains  to  discriminate.  Here  comes 
a  lonely  rich  man  ;  he  has  built  a  noble  fabric  for  his 
dwelling-house,  with  a  front  of  stately  architecture  and 
marble  floors  and  doors  of  precious  woods  ;  the  whole 
structure  is  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  and  as  substantial  as 
the  native  rock.  But  the  visionary  shapes  of  a  long  pos- 
terity, for  whose  home  this  mansion  was  intended  have 
faded  into  nothingness  since  the  death  of  the  founder's  only 
son.  The  rich  man  gives  a  glance  at  his  sable  garb  in  one 
of  the  splendid  mirrors  of  his  drawing-room,  and  descending 
a  flight  of  lofty  steps,  instinctively  offers  his  arm  to  yonder 
poverty-stricken  widow  in  the  rusty  black  bonnet,  and  with 
a  check  apron  over  her  patched  gown.  The  sailor  boy,  who 
was  her  sole  earthly  stay,  was  washed  overboard  in  a  late 
tempest.  This  couple  from  the  palace  and  th'e  almshouse 
are  but  the  types  of  thousands  more  who  represent  the 

6— (105) 


82  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


I  V,  . 

"7,..  I,  c 

^> .    /^o  I  S  '.  XV 
CP 

XP  > 

I-.-V'-      V 

s 

T  i 

'-o     . 

sq»'  -^  -  <-W-VN 

dark  tragedy  of  life,  and  seldom  quarrel  for  the  upper 
parts.  Grief  is  such  a  leveller,  with  its  own  dignity  and  its 
own  humility,  that  the  noble  and  the  peasant,  the  beggar 
and  the  monarch,  will  waive  their  pretensions  to  external 
rank  without  the  omciousness  of  interference  on  our  part. 
If  pride — the  influence  of  the  world's  false  distinctions — 
remain  in  the  heart,  then  sorrow  lacks  the  earnestness 
which  makes  it  holy  and  reverend.  It  loses  its  reality  and 
becomes  a  miserable  shadow.  On  this  ground  we  have  an 
opportunity  to  assign  over  multitudes  who  would  willingly 
claim  places  here  to  other  parts  of  the  procession.  If  the 
mourner  have  anything  dearer  than  his  grief  he  must  seek 
his  true  position  elsewhere.  There  are  so  many  unsub- 
stantial sorrows  which  the  necessity  of  our  mortal  state 
begets  on  idleness,  that  an  observer,  casting  aside  senti- 
ment, is  sometimes  led  to  question  whether  there  be  any 
real  woe,  except  absolute  physical  suffering  and  the  loss  of 
closest  friends.  A  crowd  who  exhibit  what  they  deem  to 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE.  83 


be  broken  hearts — and  among  them  many  lovelorn  maids 
and  bachelors,  and  men  of  disappointed  ambition  in  arts 
or  politics,  and  the  poor  who  were  once  rich,  or  who  have 
sought  to  be  rich  in  vain — the  great  majority  of  these  may 
ask  admittance  into  some  other  fraternity.  There  is  no 
room  here.  Perhaps  we  may  institute  a  separate  class 
where  such  unfortunates  will  naturally  fall  into  the  pro- 
cession. Meantime  let  them  stand  aside  and  patiently 
await  their  time. 

If  our  trumpeter  can  borrow  a  note  from  the  doomsday 
trumpet  blast,  let  him,  sound  it  now.  The  dread  alarum 
should  make  the  earth  quake  to  its  centre,  for  the  herald  is 
about  to  address  mankind  with  a  summons  to  which  even 
the  purest  mortal  may  be  sensible  of  some  faint  responding 
echo  in  his  breast.  In  many  bosoms  it  will  awaken  a  still 
small  voice  more  terrible  than  its  own  reverberating  uproar. 

The  hideous  appeal  has  swept  round  the  globe.  Come 
all  ye  guilty  ones,  and  rank  yourselves  in  accordance  with 


84 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


the  brotherhood  of  crime.  This,  indeed,  is  an  awful  sum- 
mons. I  almost  tremble  to  look  at  the  strange  partner- 
ships that  begin  to  be  formed,  reluctantly,  but  by  the 
invincible  necessity  of  like  to  like  in  this  part  of  the  pro- 
cession. A  forger  from  the  state  prison  seizes  the  arm  of 
a  distinguished  financier.  How  indignantly  does  the  latter 
plead  his  fair  reputation  upon  'Change  and  insist  that  his 
operations,  by  their  magnificence  of  scope,  were  removed 
into  quite  another  sphere  of  morality  than  those  of  his 
pitiful  companion  !  But  let  him  cut  the  connection,  if  he 
can.  Here  comes  a  murderer  with  his  clanking  chains, 
and  pairs  himself — horrible  to  tell — with  as  pure  and  up- 
right a  man,  in  all  observable  respects,  as  ever  partook  of 
the  consecrated  bread  and  wine.  He  is  one  of  those,  per- 
chance the  most  hopeless  of  all  sinners,  who  practise  such 
an  exemplary  system  of  outward  duties,  that  even  a  deadly 
crime  may  be  hidden  from  their  own  sight  and  remem- 
brance, under  this  unreal  frostwork.  Yet  he  now  finds 
his  place.  .  .  . 


THE    PROCESSION   OF   LIFE.  85 


Many  will  be  astonished  at  the  fatal  impulse  that  drags 
them  thitherward.  Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the 
various  deceptions  by  which  guilt  conceals  itself  from  the 
perpetrator's  conscience,  and  oftenest,  perhaps,  by  the 
splendour  of  its  garments.  Statesmen,  rulers,  generals,  and 
all  men  who  act  over  an  extensive  sphere,  are  most  liable 
to  be  deluded  in  this  way  ;  they  commit  wrong,  devasta- 
tion, and  murder,  on  so  grand  a  scale,  that  it  impresses 
them  as  speculative  rather  than  actual  ;  but  in  our  pro- 
cession we  iind  them  linked  in  detestable  conjunction  with 
the  meanest  criminals  whose  deeds  have  the  vulgarity  of 
petty  details.  Here 'the  effect  of  circumstances  and  acci- 
dent  is  done  away,  and  a  man  finds  his  rank  according  to 
the  spirit  of  his  crime,  in  whatever  shape  it  may  have  been 
developed. 

We  have  called  the  Evil  ;  now  let  us  call  the  Good.  The 
trumpet's  brazen  throat  should  pour  heavenly  music  over 
the  earth,  and  the  herald's  voice  go  forth  with  the  sweetness 


86  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


\o 


of  an  angel's  accent,  as  if  to  summon  each  upright  man 
to  his  reward.  But  how  is  this  ?  Does  none  answer 
to  the  call  ?  Not  one  :  for  the  just,  the  pure,  the  true, 
and  all  who  might  most  worthily  obey  it,  shrink  sadly  back, 
as  most  conscious  of  error  and  imperfection.  Then  let  the 
summons  be  to  those  whose  pervading  principle  is  Love. 
This  classification  will  embrace  all  the  truly  good,  and  none 
in  whose  souls  there  exists  not  something  that  may  expand 
itself  into  a  heaven,  both  of  well-doing  and  felicity. 

The  first  that  presents  himself  is  a  man  of  wealth,  who 
has  bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  a  hospital ;  his 
ghost,  methinks,  would  have  a  better  right  here  than  his 
living  body.  But  here  they  come,  the  genuine  benefactors 
of  their  race.  Some  have  wandered  about  the  earth  with 
pictures  of  bliss  in  their  imagination,  and  with  hearts  that 
shrank  sensitively  from  the  idea  of  pain  and  woe,  yet  have 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    MFH. 


87 


•x,  ,  ^  f,  - ....S-l. 


*J3 
v  /     ySV^""^ . .  Y^  "-M  v 

>f       x=>         Vv       (A.        «• — b        V^-~x      ... 

>  s^  ~^..£...   .  ,6  V^— -*  s' 
"}  n  \^.  V  s- :...).-  i.  ^ 

x-  °  '~~t 

^  _  r....X-/.»    S"    ^4 
•  S...&.:..0,-K- ' 

•\~    S-V!/X*.N,.4>-tS? 

studied  all  varieties  of  misery  that  human  nature  can 
endure.  The  prison,  the  insane  asylum,  the  squalid  cham- 
ber of  the  alms-house,  the  manufactory  where  the  demon 
of  machinery  annihilates  the  human  soul,  and  the  cotton 
liekl  where  God's  image  becomes  a  beast  of  burden  ;  to 
these  and  every  other  scene  where  man  wrongs  or  neglects 
his  brother,  the  apostles  of  humanity  have  penetrated. 
This  missionary,  black  with  India's  burning  sunshine,  shall 
give  his  arm  to  a  pale-faced  brother  who  has  made  himself 
familiar  with  the  infected  alleys  and  loathsome  haunts  of 
vice  in  one  of  our  own  cities.  The  generous  founder  of  a 
college  shall  be  the  partner  of  a  maiden  lady  of  narrow 
substance,  one  of  whose  good  deeds  it  has  been  to  gather  a 
little  school  of  orphan  children.  If  the  mighty  merchant 
whose  benefactions  are  reckoned  by  thousands  of  dollars, 
deem  himself  worthy,  let  him  join  the  procession  with  her 
whose  love  has  proved  itself  by  watchings  at  the  sick  bed 
and  all  those  lowly  offices  which  bring  her  into  actual  con- 
tact with  disease  and  wretchedness.  And  with  those 
whose  impulses  have  guided  them  to  benevolent  actions, 


88  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


we  will  rank  others  to  whom  Providence  has  assigned  a 
different  tendency  and  different  powers.  Men  who  have 
spent  their  lives  in  generous  and  holy  contemplation  for 
the  human  race  ;  those  who,  by  a  certain  heavenliness  of 
spirit,  have  purified  the  atmosphere  around  them,  and  thus 
supplied  a  medium  in  which  good  and  high  things  may  be 
projected  and  performed — give  to  these  a  lofty  place  among 
the  benefactors  of  mankind,  although  no  deed,  such  as  the 
world  calls  deeds,  may  be  recorded  of  them.  There  are 
some  individuals  of  whom  we  cannot  conceive  it  proper 
that  they  should  apply  their  hands  to  any  earthly  instru- 
ment or  work  out  any  definite  act ;  and  others,  perhaps  not 
less  high,  to  whom  it  is  an  essential  attribute  to  labour  ^in 
body  as  well  as  spirit,  for  the  welfare  of  their  brethren. 
Thus,  if  we  find  a  spiritual  sage  whose  unseen,  inestimable 
influence  has  exalted  the  moral  standard  of  mankind,  we 
will  choose  for  his  companion  some  poor  labourer  who  has 
wrought  for  love  in  the  potato  field  of  a  neighbour  poorer 
than  himself. 


THE    PROCESSION    OF   LIFE. 


C^°A 

\        "  ' 

>>4- 

I       I  •        '  /"       ^O         W"  Vf 

<*^    '  "-^'"          "7 f 

^  .\V.T>7%     C   _,,    > \  ..,   t  .  .?.  o  .>?.  / 

\Ve  have  summoned  this  various  multitude — and,  to  the 
credit  of  our  nature,  it  is  a  large  one — on  the  principle  of 
Love.  It  is  singular,  nevertheless,  to  remark  the  shyness 
that  exists  among  many  members  of  the  present  class,  all 
of  whom  we  might  expect  to  recognise  one  another  by  the 
freemasonry  of  mutual  goodness,  and  to  embrace  like 
brethren,  giving  God  thanks  for  such  various  specimens  of 
human  excellence.  But  it  is  far  otherwise.  Each  sect 
surrounds  its  own  righteousness  with  a  hedge  of  thorns. 
It  is  difficult  for  the  good  Christian  to  acknowledge  the 
good  Pagan  ;  almost  impossible  for  the  good  Orthodox  to 
grasp  the  hand  of  the  good  Unitarian,  leaving  to  their 
Creator  to  settle  the  matters  in  dispute,  and  giving  their 
mutual  efforts  strongly  and  trustingly  to  whatever  right 
thing  is  too  evident  to  be  mistaken.  Then  again,  though 
the  heart  be  large,  yet  the  mind  is  often  of  such  moderate 
dimensions  as  to  be  exclusively  filled  up  with  one  idea. 
When  a  good  man  has  long  devoted  himself  to  a  particular 


90  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


V  '  < 


kind  of  beneficence — to  one  species  of  reform — he  is  apt  to 
become  narrowed  into  the  limits  of  the  path  wherein  he 
treads,  and  to  fancy  that  there  is  no  other  good  to  be  done 
on  earth  but  that  selfsame  good  to  which  he  has  put  his 
hand,  and  in  the  very  mode  that  best  suits  his  own  con- 
ceptions. All  else  is  worthless.  His  scheme  must  be 
wrought  out  by  the  united  strength  of  the  whole  world's 
stock  of  love,  or  the  world  is  no  longer  worthy  of  a  position 
in  the  universe.  Moreover,  powerful  Truth,  being  the  rich 
grape  juice  expressed  from  the  vineyard  of  the  ages,  has 
an  intoxicating  quality,  when  imbibed  by  any  save  a 
powerful  intellect,  and  often,  as  it  were,  impels  the  quaffer 
to  quarrel  in  his  cups.  For  these  reasons,  strange  to  say, 
it  is  harder  to  contrive  a  friendly  arrangement  of  these 
brethren  of  love  and  righteousness,  in  the  procession  of 
life,  than  to  unite  even  the  wicked,  who,  indeed,  are 
chained  together  by  their  crimes.  The  fact  is  too 
preposterous  for  tears,  too  lugubrious  for  laughter. 


THE    PROCESSION   OF   LIFE.  91 


* 


But,  let  good  men  push  and  elbow  one  another  as  they 
may  during  their  earthly  march,  all  will  be  peace  among 
them  when  the  honourable  array  of  their  procession  shall 
tread  on  heavenly  ground.  There  they  will  doubtless  find 
that  they  have  been  working  each  for  the  other's  cause, 
and  that  every  well-delivered  stroke,  which,  with  an  honest 
purpose,  any  mortal  struck,  even  for  a  narrow  object,  was 
indeed  stricken  for  the  universal  cause  of  good.  Their  own 
view  may  be  bounded  by  country,  creed,  profession,  the 
diversities  of  individual  character — -but  above  them  all  is 
the  breadth  of  Providence.  How  many,  who  have  deemed 
themselves  antagonists,  will  smile  hereafter,  when  they 
look  back  upon  the  world's  wide  harvest  field,  and 
perceive  that,  in  unconscious  brotherhood,  they  were 
helping  to  bind  the  selfsame  sheaf ! 

But,  come  !  The  sun  is  hastening  westward,  while  the 
march  of  human  life,  that  never  paused  before,  is  delayed 
by  our  attempt  to  rearrange  its  order.  It  is  desirable  to 
find  some  comprehensive  principle,  that  shall  render  our 
task  easier  by  bringing  thousands  into  the  ranks  where 


92 


SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


t 

hitherto  we  have  brought  one.  Therefore  let  the  trumpet, 
if  possible,  split  its  brazen  throat  with  a  louder  note  than 
ever,  and  the  herald  summon  all  mortals  who,  from  what- 
ever cause,  have  lost,  or  never  found,  their  proper  places 
in  the  world. 

Obedient  to  this  call,  a  great  multitude  come  together, 
most  of  them  with  a  listless  gait,  betokening  weariness  of 
soul,  yet  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  their  faces,  at  a 
prospect  of  at  length  reaching  those  positions  which, 
hitherto,  they  have  vainly  sought.  But  here  will  be 
another  disappointment  ;  for  we  can  attempt  no  more 
than  merely  to  associate,  in  one  fraternity,  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  the  same  vague  trouble.  Some  great  mis- 
take in  life  is  the  chief  condition  of  admittance  into  this 
class.  Here  are  members  of  the  learned  professions,  whom 
Providence  endowed  with  special  gifts  for  the  plough,  the 
forge,  and  the  wheelbarrow,  or  for  the  routine  of  unintel- 
lectual  business.  We  will  assign  to  them,  as  partners  in 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 


^     °    c    •  ^      v         -^~l  ^    ^~f 

?-.  ...S<.    9t    \  \^<     ^^    -      '' 

C\        ^^7 
^VP-       x       ^        ~t 

>    ^    >      v  -U'v 

3..       •        \          V     ^         """^^f       ^->S_        </       X  *.  X.  * 

d  ) 

.*/                                                        p                 -v 
x         b     

--V--- 

p    , 

IX  .£..£...".    )  %,  £  A  I  , 
«x 

u     -^w  • 

\ 

X  I 

the  march,  those  lowly  labourers  and  handicraftsmen,  who 
have  pined,  as  with  a  dying  thirst,  after  the  unattainable 
fountains  of  knowledge.  The  latter  have  lost  less  than 
their  companions  ;  yet  more,  because  they  deem  it  infinite. 
Perchance  the  two  species  of  unfortunates  may  comfort 
one  another.  .  .  . 

Shall  we  bid  the  trumpet  sound  again  ?  It  is  hardly 
worth  the  while.  There  remain  a  few  idle  men  of  fortune, 
and  people  of  crooked  intellect  or  temper,  all  of  whom,  may 
find  their  like,  or  some  tolerable  approach  to  it,  in  the 
plentiful  diversity  of  our  latter  class.  There  too,  as  his 
ultimate  destiny,  must  we  rank  the  dreamer,  who,  all  his 
life  long,  has  cherished  the  idea  that  he  was  peculiarly  apt 
for  something,  but  never  could  determine  what  it  was  ; 
and  there  the  most  unfortunate  of  men,  whose  purpose 
it  has  been  to  enjoy  life's  pleasures,  but  to  avoid  a  manful 
struggle  with  its  toil  and  sorrow.  The  remainder,  if  any, 
may  connect  themselves  with  whatever  rank  of  the 


94  SELECTIONS   FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


procession  they  shall  find  best  adapted  to  their  tastes  and 
consciences.  The  worst  possible  fate  would  be  to  remain 
behind,  shivering  in  the  solitude  of  time,  while  all  the 
world  is  on  the  move  towards  eternity.  Our  attempt  to 
classify  society  is  now  complete.  The  result  may  be  any- 
thing but  perfect :  yet  better — to  give  it  the  very  lowest 
praise — than  the  antique  rule  of  the  herald's  office,  or  the 
modern  one  of  the  tax-gatherer,  whereby  the  accidents  and 
superficial  attributes,  with  which  the  real  nature  of  indi- 
viduals has  least  to  do,  are  acted  upon  as  the  deepest 
characteristics  of  mankind.  Our  task  is  done  !  Now  let 
the  grand  procession  move  ! 

Yet  pause  a  while  !    We  had  forgotten  the  Chief  Marshal. 

Hark  !  That  world-wide  swell  of  solemn  music,  with 
the  clang  of  a  mighty  bell  breaking  forth  through  its  regu- 
lated uproar,  announces  his  approach.  He  comes ;  a 
severe,  sedate,  immovable,  dark  rider,  waving  his  trun- 
cheon of  universal  sway,  as  he  passes  along  the  lengthened 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE. 

c 


95 


Si       )     \..^...S>     e-     \,     .<. 


line,  on  the  pale  horse  of  the  Revelation.  It  is  Death  ! 
Who  else  could  assume  the  guidance  of  a  procession  that 
comprehends  all  humanity  ?  And,  if  some,  among  these 
many  millions,  should  deem  themselves  classed  amiss,  yet 
let  them  take  to  their  hearts  the  comfortable  truth,  that 
Death  levels  us  all  into  one  great  brotherhood,  and  that 
another  state  of  being  will  surely  rectify  the  wrong  of  this. 
Then  breathe  thy  wail  upon  the  earth's  wailing  wind,  thou 
band  of  melancholy  music,  made  up  of  every  sigh  that 
the  human  heart,  unsatisfied,  has  uttered  !  There  is  yet 
triumph  in  thy  tones.  And  now  we  move  !  Beggars  in 
their  rags,  and  Kings  trailing  the  regal  purple  in  the  dust  ; 
the  Warrior's  gleaming  helmet ;  the  Priest  in  his  sable 
robe  ;  the  hoary  grandsire,  who  has  run  life's  circle  and 
come  back  to  childhood  ;  the  ruddy  Schoolboy  with  his 
golden  curls,  frisking  along  the  march  ;  the  Artisan's  stuff 
jacket  ;  the  Noble's  star-decorated  coat  ; — the  whole  pre- 
senting a  motley  spectacle,  yet  with  a  dusky  grandeur 
brooding  over  it.  Onward,  onward,  into  that  dimness 
where  the  lights  of  Time,  which  have  blazed  along  the 


SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


A   MELTING  STORY. 

BY  MARK  TWAIN. 


procession,  are  flickering  in  their  sockets  !  And  whither  ! 
We  know  not ;  and  Death,  hitherto  our  leader,  deserts  us 
by  the  wayside  as  the  tramp  of  our  innumerable  footsteps 
echoes  beyond  his  sphere.  He  knows  not,  more  than  we, 
our  destined  goal.  But  God,  who  made  us,  knows,  and  will 
not  leave  us  on  our  toilsome  and  doubtful  march,  either 
to  wander  in  infinite  uncertainty,  or  perish  by  the  way  ! 


"  Yes,"  remarked  the  old  gentleman  from  the  Eastern 
States,  folding  his  hands  and  steadying  his  gaze  upon  a 
mark  on  the  floor,  "  I  did  know  a  story — a  little  incident — 
of  our  simple  daily  life  in  Vermont,  which  might  perhaps 
not  be  considered  too  old-fashioned  to  interest  you  whilst 
we  are  waiting  here  for  the  stage." 

"  Pray  proceed,"  we  all  cried  in  a  chorus  together  ;  and 
the  old  gentleman  again  folded  his  hands  and  began  : 

"One  winter  evening,  a  country  storekeeper  in  the 
Green  Mountain  State  was  about  closing  up  for  the  night, 


A   MELTING   STORY. 


and  while  standing  in  the  snow  outside,  putting  up  the 
window  shutters,  saw  through  the  glass  a  lounging  worth- 
less fellow  within  grab  a  pound  of  fresh  butter  from  the 
shelf,  and  conceal  it  in  his  hat. 

"  The  act  was  no  sooner  detected  than  the  revenge  was 
hit  upon,  and  a  very  few  minutes  found  the  Green  Moun- 
tain storekeeper  at  once  indulging  his  appetite  for  fun  to 
the  fullest  extent,  and  paying  off  the  thief  with  a  facetious 
sort  of  torture,  for  which  he  would  have  gained  a  premium 
from  the  old  Inquisition. 

"  '  I  say,  Seth.'  said  the  storekeeper,  coming  in  and  clos- 
ing the  door  after  him,  slapping  his  hands  over  his  shoulders 
and  stamping  the  snow  off  his  feet — 

"  Seth  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  his  hat  on  his  head, 
ind  the  roll  of  butter  in  his  hat,  anxious  to  make  his  exit 
as  soon  as  possible. 

"  '  - — I  say,  Seth,  sit  down.     I  reckon,  now,  on  such  a 
cold  night  as  this  a  little  something  warm  would  not  hurt 
a  fellow.' 
7— <ios) 


SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


•••cri  v.\  P..J. 
*  j 


"  Seth  felt  very  uncertain.  He  had  the  butter,  and  was 
exceedingly  anxious  to  be  off  ;  but  the  temptation  of  some- 
thing warm  sadly  interfered  with  his  resolution  to  go. 

"  This  hesitation  was  settled  by  the  owner  of  the  butter 
taking  Seth  by  the  shoulders  and  planting  him,  in  a  seat 
close  to  the  stove,  where  he  was  in  such  a  manner  cornered 
in  by  the  boxes  and  barrels  that,  while  the  grocer  stood 
before  him,  there  was  no  possibility  of  getting  out ;  and 
right  in  this  very  place,  sure  enough,  the  storekeeper  sat 
down. 

"  '  Seth,  we'll  have  a  little  warm  Santa  Cruz,'  said  the 
Green  Mountain  grocer  ;  so  he  opened  the  stove  door,  and 
stuffed  in  as  many  sticks  as  the  place  would  admit  : 
'  without  it  you'd  freeze  going  out  such  a  night  as  this.' 

"  Seth  already  felt  the  butter  settling  down  closer  to  his 
hair,  and  he  jumped  up,  declaring  he  must  go. 


A    MELTING   STORY.  99 


A  , '     x?  ^,  1.;...^...^... 

".  I  ^  ^  >  \  1  N    ^_     .!^.. 


"  '  Not  till  you  have  something  warm,  Seth.  Come, 
I've  got  a  story  to  tell  you.' 

"  And  Seth  was  again  rushed  into  his  seat  by  his  cunning 
tormentor. 

"  '  Oh,  it's  so  hot  here.'  said  the  petty  thief,  attempting 
to  rise. 

"  '  Sit  down — don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,'  retorted  the 
grocer,  pushing  him  back  into  his  chair. 

"  '  But  I've  got  the  cows  to  fodder  and  the  wood  to 
split — I  must  be  going,'  said  the  persecuted  chap. 

"  '  But  you  mustn't  tear  yourself  away,  Seth,  in  this 
manner.  Sit  down,  let  the  cows  take  care  of  themselves, 
and  keep  yourself  easy.  You  appear  to  be  a  little  fidgety,' 
said  the  roguish  grocer,  with  a  wicked  leer. 

"  The  next  thing  was  the  production  of  two  smoking 
glasses  of  hot  toddy,  the  very  sight  of  which,  in  Seth's 


100  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


present  situation,  would  have  made  the  hair  stand  erect 
upon  his  head  had  it  not  been  well  oiled  and  kept  down 
by  the  butter. 

"  '  Seth,  I  will  give  you  a  toast,  now,  and  you  can  butter 
it  yourself,'  said  the  grocer,  with  an  air  of  such  consummate 
simplicity,  that  poor  Seth  believed  himself  unsuspected. 

"  '  Seth,  here's — here's  a  Christmas  Goose,  well  roasted 
— eh  ?  I  tell  you,  it's  the  greatest  in  creation.  And, 
Seth,  don't  you  never  use  hog's  fat,  or  common  cooking 
butter,  to  baste  it  with.  Come,  take  your  butter — I 
mean,  Seth,  take  your  toddy.' 

"  Poor  Seth  now  began  to  smoke  as  well  as  melt,  and  his 
mouth  was  hermetically  sealed  up,  as  though  he  had  been 
born  dumb. 

"  Streak  after  streak  of  butter  came  pouring  from  under 
his  hat,  and  his  handkerchief  was  already  soaked  with  the 
greasy  overflow. 


A    MELTING    STORY.  101 


"  Talking  away  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter,  the  fun- 
loving  grocer  kept  stuffing  wood  into  the  stove,  while  poor 
Seth  sat  upright,  with  his  back  against  the  counter,  and 
his  knees  touching  the  red-hot  furnace  before  him. 

"  '  Cold  night  this,'  said  the  grocer.  '  Why,  Seth,  you 
seem  to  perspire  as  if  you  were  warm.  Why  don't  you 
take  your  hat  off  ?  Here,  let  me  put  your  hat  away.' 

"  '  No  !  '  exclaimed  poor  Seth  at  last.  '  No  !  I  must 
go! 

'  '  Let  me  out ! 

"  '  I  ain't  well  ! 

"  '  Let  me  go  !  ' 

"  A  greasy  cataract  was  now  pouring  down  the  poor 
m.m's  face  and  neck,  and  soaking  into  his  clothes,  and 
trickling  down  his  body  into  his  boots,  so  that  he  was 
literally  in  a  perfect  bath  of  oil. 


102  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST 
TABLE. 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


"  '  Well,  good  night,  Seth,'  said  the  humorous  Vermonter 
—  '  if  you  will  go  !  '  And  adding,  as  he  started  out  of  the 
door  —  '  I  say,  Seth,  I  reckon  the  fun  I  have  had  out  of  you 
is  worth  ninepence,  so  I  shan't  charge  you  for  that  pound 
of  butter  in  your  hat.'  ' 


Nobody  talks  much  that  doesn't  say  unwise  things, 
things  he  didn't  mean  to  say  ;  as  no  person  plays  much 
without  striking  a  false  note  sometimes.  Talk  to  me,  is 
only  spading  up  the  ground  for  crops  of  thought.  I  cannot 
answer  for  what  will  turn  up.  If  I  could,  it  would  not  be 
talking,  but  "  speaking  my  piece."  Better,  I  think,  the 
hearty  abandonment  of  one's  self  to  the  suggestions  of  the 
moment,  at  the  risk  of  an  occasional  slip  of  the  tongue, 
perceived  the  instant  it  escapes,  but  just  one  syllable  too 
late,  than  the  royal  reputation  of  never  saying  a  foolish 
thing. 


TDK    PROFESSOR    AT   THE    BREAKFAST   TABLE.       103 


The  boarders  were  pleased  to  say  that  they  were  glad 
to  get  me  back.  One  of  them  ventured  a  compliment, 
namely — that  I  talked  as  if  I  believed  what  I  said.  This 
was  apparently  considered  something  unusual,  by  its  being 
mentioned. 

One  who  means  to  talk  with  entire  sincerity,  I  said, 
always  feels  himself  in  danger  of  two  things,  namely — an 
affectation  of  bluntness,  like  that  of  which  Cornwall 
accuses  Kent  in  "  Lear,"  and  actual  rudeness.  What  a 
man  wants  to  do,  in  talking  with  a  stranger,  is  to  get  and 
to  give  as  much  of  the  best  and  most  real  life  that  belongs 
to  the  two  talkers  as  the  time  will  let  him.  Life  is  short, 
and  conversation  apt  to  run  to  mere  words.  Mr.  Hue,  I 
think  it  is,  who  tells  us  some  very  good  stories  about  the 
way  in  which  two  Chinese  gentlemen  contrive  to  keep  up 
a  long  talk  without  saying  a  word  which  has  any  meaning 
in  it.  Something  like  this  is  occasionally  heard  on  this  side 
of  the  Great  Wall.  The  best  Chinese  talkers  I  know  are 


104  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


some  pretty  women  whom  I  meet  from  time  to  time. 
Pleasant,  airy,  complimentary,  the  little  flakes  of  flattery 
glimmering  in  their  talk  ;  their  accents  flowing  on  in  a 
soft  ripple,  —  never  a  wave,  and  never  a  calm  ;  words 
nicely  fitted  but  never  a  coloured  phrase  or  a  high-flavoured 
epithet  ;  they  turn  air  into  syllables  so  gracefully  that  we 
iind  meaning  for  the  music  they  make  as  we  find  faces  in 
the  coals  and  fairy  palaces  in  the  clouds.  There  is  some- 
thing very  odd,  though,  about  this  mechanical  talk. 

You  have  sometimes  been  in  a  train  on  the  railroad 
when  the  engine  was  detached  a  long  way  from  the  station 
you  were  approaching  ?  Well,  you  have  noticed  how 
quietly  and  rapidly,  the  cars  kept  on,  just  as  if  the  loco- 
motive were  drawing  them.  ?  Indeed,  you  would  not  have 
suspected  that  you  were  travelling  on  the  strength  of  a 
dead  fact  if  you  had  not  seen  the  engine  running  away  from 
you  on  a  side-track.  Upon  my  conscience,  I  believe  some 
of  these  pretty  women  detach  their  minds  entirely,  some- 
times, from  their  talk,  —  and,  what  is  more,  that  we  never 
know  the  difference.  Their  lips  let  off  the  fluty  syllables 


THE    PROFESSOR    AT    THE    BREAKFAST    TABLE.        105 


just  as  their  fingers  would  sprinkle  the  music  drops  from 
their  pianos ;  unconscious  habit  turns  the  phrase  of 
thought  into  words  just  as  it  does  that  of  music  into  notes. 
Well,  they  govern  the  world,  for  all  that, — these  sweet- 
lipped  women, — because  beauty  is  the  index  of  a  larger 
fact  than  wisdom. 

— The  Bombazine  wanted  an  explanation. 
Madam,  said  I,  wisdom  is  the  abstract  of  the  past,  but 
beauty  is  the  promise  of  the  future. 

— All  this,  however,  is  not  what  I  was  going  to  say. 
Here  am  I,  suppose,  seated,  we  will  say,  at  a  dinner- table, 
alongside  of  an  intelligent  Englishman.  We  look  in  each 
other's  faces — we  exchange  a  dozen  words.  One  thing  is 
settled  :  we  mean  not  to  offend  each  other — to  be  per- 
fectly courteous — more  than  courteous  ;  for  we  are  the 
entertainer  and  the  entertained,  and  cherish  particularly 
amiable  feelings  to  each  other.  The  claret  is  good  :  and  if 


106  SELECTIONS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


A   '. 


y       a  T  b  ...u..^  v  < 


our  blood  reddens  a  little  with  its  warm  crimson,  we  are 
none  the  less  kind  for  it. 

1  don't  think  people  that  talk  over  their  victuals  are 

like  to  say  anything  very  great,  especially  if  they  get  their 
heads  muddled  with  strong  drink  before  they  begin 
jabbering. 

The  Bombazine  uttered  this  with  a  sugary  sourness,  as 
if  the  words  had  been  steeped  in  a  solution  of  acetate  of 
lead.  The  boys  of  my  time  used  to  call  a  hit  like  this  a 
"  side-winder." 

— I  must  finish  this  woman. 

Madam,  I  said,  the  Great  Teacher  seems  to  have  been 
fond  of  talking  as  he  sat  at  meat.  Because  this  was  a  good 
while  ago,  in  a  far-off  place,  you  forget  what  the  true  fact 
of  it  was, — that  those  were  real  dinners,  where  people  were 


THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE.   107 


hungry  and  thirsty,  and  where  you  met  a  very  miscellane- 
ous company.  Probably  there  was  a  great  deal  of  loose 
talk  among  the  guests  :  at  any  rate,  there  was  always  wine, 
we  may  believe. 

Whatever  may  be  the  hygienic  advantages  or  disadvan- 
tages of  wine, — and  I,  for  one,  except  for  certain  particular 
ends,  believe  in  water,  and,  I  blush  to  say  it,  in  black  tea, 
— there  is  no  doubt  about  its  being  the  grand  specific 
against  dull  dinners.  A  score  of  people  come  together  in 
all  moods  of  mind  and  body.  The  problem  is,  in  the  space 
of  one  hour,  more  or  less,  to  bring  them  all  into  the  same 
condition  of  slightly  exalted  life.  Food  alone  is  enough 
for  one  person,  perhaps, — talk,  alone,  for  another  ;  but 
the  grand  equalizer  and  fraternizer,  which  works  up  the 
radiators  to  their  maximum  radiation,  and  the  absorbents 
to  their  maximum  receptivity,  is  now  just  where  it  was 
«rhen 

"  The  conscious  water  saw  its  Lord  and  blushed," 


108  SKIECT10NS    FROM    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


r 


.  L^~~^...v....f\..     f^.-.™..\..l  x    s_s>:  o,  1. 

\    •/3r"    /     ^     /  <£*y~?''^.,    .C../~^~'    .V. 

— when  six  great  vessels  containing  water,  the  whole 
amounting  to  more  than  a  hogshead-full,  were  changed 
into  the  best  of  wine.  I  once  wrote  a  song  about  wine,  in 
which  I  spoke  so  warmly  of  it,  that  I  was  afraid  some  would 
think  it  was  written  inter  pocula  ;  whereas  it  was  composed 
in  the  bosom  of  my  family,  under  the  most  tranquillizing 
domestic  influences. 

— The  Divinity-Student  turned  towards  me,  looking 
mischievous.  Can  you  tell  me,  he  said,  who  wrote  a  song 
for  a  temperance  celebration  once,  of  which  the  following 
is  a  verse  ? 

Alas  for  the  loved  one,  too  gentle  and  fair 
The  joys  of  the  banquet  to  chasten  and  share  ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in  his  wine  ! 
I  did,  I  answered.     What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 
I  will  tell  you  another  line  I  wrote  long  ago  : — 

Don't  be  "  consistent," — but  be  simply  true. 


THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE.   109 

(;  -  < 


The  longer  I  live,  the  more  I  am  satisfied  of  two  things  : 
first,  that  the  truest  lives  are  those  that  are  cut  rose- 
diamond-fashion,  with  many  facets  answering  to  the  man}' 
planed  aspects  of  the  world  about  them  :  secondly,  that 
society  is  always  trying  in  some  way  or  other  to  grind  us 
down  to  a  single  flat  surface.  It  is  hard  work  to  resist 
this  grinding-down  action.  Now  give  me  a  chance.  Better 
eternal  and  universal  abstinence  than  the  brutalities  of 
those  days  that  made  wives  and  mothers  and  daughters 
and  sisters  blush  for  those  whom  they  should  have  hon- 
oured, as  they  came  reeling  home  from  their  debauches  ! 
Yet  better  even  excess  than  lying  and  hypocrisy  ;  and  if 
wine  is  upon  all  our  tables,  let  us  praise  it  for  its  colour 
and  fragrance  and  social  tendency,  so  far  as  it  deserves, 
and  not  hug  a  bottle  in  the  closet,  and  pretend  not  to 
know  the  use  of  a  wine-glass  at  a  public  dinner  !  I  think 
you  will  find  that  people  who  honestly  mean  to  be  true 
really  contradict  themselves  much  more  rarely  than  those 
who  try  to  be  "  consistent."  But  a  great  many  things  we 
say  can  be  made  to  appear  contradictory,  simply  because 


110  SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


*-.^.:-~:.  v* ::  i  %  s?.  i 

t 7  ^^ 

\  '^^  '  "f     L  ^  x 

o    k  >     b   

>        eJ 


XXX 


they  are  partial  views  of  a  truth,  and  may  often  look  unlike 
at  first,  as  a  front  view  of  a  face  and  its  profile  often  do. 

— Language  is  a  solemn  thing.  It  grows  out  of  life — 
out  of  its  agonies  and  ecstasies,  its  wants  and  its  weariness. 
Every  language  is  a  temple,  in  which  the  soul  of  those  who 
speak  it  is  enshrined.  Because  Time  softens  its  outlines 
and  rounds  the  sharp  angles  of  its  cornices,  shall  a  fellow 
take  a  pickaxe  to  help  time  ?  Let  me  tell  you  what  comes 
of  meddling  with  things  that  can  take  care  of  themselves. 
A  friend  of  mine  had  a  watch  given  him,  when  he  was  a  boy, 
a  "  bull's  eye,"  with  a  loose  silver  case  that  came  off  like 
an  oyster-shell  from  its  contents ;  you  know  them — the  cases 
that  you  hang  on  your  thumb,  while  the  core,  or  the  real 
watch,  lies  in  your  hand,  as  naked  as  a  peeled  apple.  Well, 
he  began  with  taking  off  the  case  and  so  on  ;  from  one  liberty 
to  another,  until  he  got  it  fairly  open,  and  there  were  the 
works,  as  good  as  if  they  were  alive — crown-wheel,  balance- 
wheel,  and  all  the  rest,  all  right  except  one  thing  ;  there 


THE   PROFESSOR    AT   TIIK    BREAKFAST   TABLfi.       Ill 


was  a  confounded  little  hair  had  got  entangled  round  the 
balance-wheel.  So  my  young  Solomon  got  a  pair  of 
tweezers,  and  caught  hold  of  the  hair  very  nicely,  and 
pulled  it  right  out,  without  touching  any  of  the  wheels  — 
when  —  buzz  !  and  the  watch  had  done  up  twenty-four 
hours  in  double  magnetic-telegraph  time  !  The  English 
language  was  wound  up  to  run  some  thousands  of  years, 
I  trust  ;  but  if  everybody  is  to  be  pulling  at  everything 
he  thinks  is  a.  hair,  our  grand-children  will  have  to  make 
the  discovery  that  it  is  a  hair-s^n'wg,  and  the  old  Anglo- 
Norman  soul's-timekeeper  will  run  down,  as  so  many  other 
dialects  have  done  before  it.  I  can't  stand  this  meddling 
any  better  than  you,  sir.  But  we  have  a  great  deal  to  be 
proud  of  in  the  lifelong  labours  of  that  old  lexicographer, 
and  we  mustn't  be  ungrateful.  Besides,  don't  let  us 
deceive  ourselves,  the  war  of  the  dictionaries  is  only  a 
disguised  rivalry  of  cities,  colleges,  and  especially  of  pub- 
lishers. After  all,  it  is  likely  that  the  language  will  shape 


112 


SELECTIONS   FROM   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 


itself  by  larger  forces  than  phonography  and  dictionary- 
making.  You  may  spade  up  the  ocean  as  much  as  you 
like,  and  harrow  it  afterwards,  if  you  can — but  the  moon 
will  still  lead  the  tides,  and  the  winds  will  form  their 
surface. 


Printed  by  Sir  Isaac  Pitman  &  Sons, Ltd.,   Bath,   England. 
C— (105) 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


2tw^lO,'48(B1040)470 


AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


••    ••     I  III      II    II      III 

A     000  570  436     6 


